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by Ke Roth
Summary: Four years have elapsed since the events of "Nemesis", and life - and death - has gone on for the crew of the Enterprise. Sequel to Echoes.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

In the end, he had failed them all.

Failed them as their leader, as their mentor, as their friend.

He had failed them - and Data had died. Data, who was the best of them all, the noblest, the purest, the wisest and the most innocent, the smartest and the least educated of them all; Data, who could have lived forever, who could have carried their hopes, their dreams, their successes - and their failures - into the future, who could have ensured that all they had worked and strived for would have meant something to the generations to come - Data had died.

Data had died - to save him.

It should have been me, he thought; I should have found the strength to pull myself free from Shinzon, to fire the phaser, the save them all - but I couldn't; I didn't - and we all would have died, if he hadn't been there.

I didn't even protest, he thought. I didn't say a word to stop him. I could see from his expression what he intended to do - see in his eyes the love he had for us all; I could see that this was no sacrifice for him - just the final - the ultimate - manifestation of his humanity - a humanity that deserved the chance I didn't give him - and I did nothing - nothing! - to stop him, to save him.

I didn't thank him; I didn't even say, "Good-bye," he thought.

He died for me.

For us all, he conceded a moment later; Data would have done what he did for any of us - or for none. There was too much at stake - the survival not only of the small group that called themselves his friends, but of the crew, the ship, indeed, the survival of the human and Romulan races depended on one of them doing what Data had done.

But it should have been me, he knew.

Of all of us, my life was the one that could have been sacrificed most easily, with the least real loss; I've had a long life, a good life... while Data had a life - a thousand lives - ahead of him.

It should have been me.

It should have been me - and we all knew it.

No one blamed him, of course - and yet everything had changed. From that day on, nothing had been the same.

Part of that change was inevitable, of course, he knew - and not all of it had stemmed from Data's death. Will and Deanna had already married, and their transfer to the Titan was already confirmed when the ship had been sent on the mission to Romulus; Beverly had already accepted the posting as the head of Starfleet Medical; Worf had already decided on his full reinstatement with Starfleet.

Still...

Still, there was an undercurrent of uncertainty in their relationships that hinted at the unexpressed emotions they all felt after their friend's death, a blame, an accusation of unspoken guilt that none would admit - but that they unquestionably felt.

Will and Deanna had remained cordial - at least on those rare occasions when he had seen them - but despite the outward expressions of friendship, he could see the tension clouding the Betazoid's eyes, even as she had smiled at him, seen the reticence, the hesitancy in Will's expression and comportment - and they had all seemed relieved when he had cut those reunions short.

As he had been relieved when Worf had accepted Will's offer of a position on the Titan, he reminded himself. Perhaps it was simply in the Klingon's nature not to discuss those who had died - he never discussed Tasha Yar or Keyh'ler or Jadzia Dax, so perhaps it was not unexpected that he didn't discuss Data either - but he could never meet his new first officer's eyes without sensing the doubt the man felt about his superior officer, the unspoken question of when he, too, would have to sacrifice himself. As a Klingon, he would never question the necessity - but as a sentient being with a full life ahead of him, how could he but wonder at the waste, a life with so much potential given up for a life that had already been lived?

And Beverly...

Beverly had commiserated with him, grieved with him, mourned with him - all that he could have asked or expected of his friend in those first few days. But duty had called, and in the weeks that had followed their return to Earth, Starfleet Medical had made more and more demands upon her time and energy. The dinner dates had been postponed, rescheduled, postponed again, then finally cancelled altogether, until they had realized there was only a chance for a quick lunch together before he shipped out once again - and even that had been awkward, strained, uncomfortable. They had separated quickly, farewells said across subspace, with promises to get together in the future well-meant - but never fulfilled.

No, he amended, that wasn't accurate. They had met, on more than one occasion, when time and happenstance brought them to the same place, making plans to get together, to spend time renewing their friendship - only to cancel them before they began.

Oh, there had been that weekend in London, he conceded, and the brief holiday in Paris, when the past and the pain had been forgotten, pushed aside for a moment - but every arrangement they had made to spend more than a few hours together, every time there was a chance at reestablishing what they once had - or hoped they had - ended before it began, duty calling at each of them with uncanny precision.

If it was duty, he added; Starfleet Medical was out of the purview of his authority; if Beverly claimed an emergency, he was in no position to check up on her to verify the fact, short of calling in a personal favor from an old friend - and there was no way he could do that without appearing the fool. And if she was deceiving him...

If she was deceiving him, it wasn't done in order to hurt him, but rather the opposite: to preserve his feelings, to safeguard his self-esteem without forcing him to face the truth: that whatever she had felt at one time had long faded, lost to his reluctance, indifference - or, he added, by the realization that what he was - what he truly was - was simply not the man she had once thought she admired.

Of them all, only Geordi had remained behind, staying with the ship even as the others had found places on other ships or in other roles - but he knew full well that the engineer had stayed behind not out of some loyalty to him but rather out of his own loneliness and his own inability to find a life outside of his work - and, he had come to realize, for reasons of his own.

And yet, of them all, he had never seen an instant of doubt or uncertainty in the engineer's eyes; he had killed Geordi's best friend - and yet, of them all, Geordi was the only one he knew never blamed him.

Or perhaps he wasn't quite the only one.

He stared at the ceiling of the dark room, remembering.

It hadn't been until after the chaos and emotional tumult of Data's death and the destruction of the Scimitar had faded that he had remembered Tiron, the Romulan who had had served as ambassador during the treaty negotiations - and remembered that the man had been given a post on the Romulan Senate - the Senate that had been virtually destroyed by Shinzon and the Reman sympathizers. For several frustrating days as the ship limped back toward the Romulan homeworld, the crew had tried to find out the fate of their friend, only to be stymied by the general chaos and disarray that had taken the place of the usually well-organized government. Even when they had finally reached the interim government communication office, no one seemed to be entirely sure who had been in the Senate chambers during the destruction wrought by the thalaron radiation.

It wasn't until the Enterprise had finally reached Romulus and a degree of order had been restored to the shattered government that a list of losses - and survivors - had been posted, and Tiron's name had been on that latter list. That knowledge had been far from reassuring, however; those who had survived were instantly implicated in the plot to destabilize the government, and more than a few had been killed by the families and political allies of those Senators and guards who had died before a degree of rationality and normality returned to Romulus.

Tiron had been neither, as it turned out - though the reality of where he was had been equally troubling: he had been off-planet the entire time, the Emperor himself having granted the man special dispensation to take leave from his duties so that he might take his gravely ill granddaughter to the Briar Patch in hope that the metaphasic radiation there might heal her.

Tiron's granddaughter.

Andile.

He closed his eyes, chastising himself for this failure as well. Escaping to Romulus should have been her salvation, he told himself; there, under Tiron's care and away from the dangers of Admiral Thaddeus Czymszczak, she should have flourished, Tiron's resources and her own innate healing abilities allowing her to finish the recovery she had begun on his ship.

How foolish I was, he chided himself; how ignorant. Yes, Tiron could offer her physical safety, even exceptional medical care - but he could not give her the most important part of her recovery on the Enterprise, the one component that done more to aid in her recuperation than even the finest, most sophisticated treatment that Beverly could offer her: Data's love.

I should have kept her here, he thought; I should have found a way to protect her, to keep her safe while Beverly found a way to restore her physical health while Data's love restored her soul. But I failed her in that, just as I failed the others: I forced her away from the man she loved.

How do I tell her now that that love is gone forever? he had wondered in those long nights that had filled the trip back to Earth.

How do I tell her that I was the one who killed him?

In the end, though, he had been spared that task; news of the Romulan disaster - and the Enterprise's involvement in the eventual destruction of the Shinzon and the Scimitar - had been relayed to the Romulan Senator - along with the Emperor's personal condolences at the loss of the Senator's friend.

He had been spared the task - but not the consequences; even across the depths of space, he had felt the stunned astonishment as the news registered in Andile's mind - and then felt his mind - his very soul - reel with the pain of grief.

But even from her, there had been no accusation in that pain; no blame, no censure, no recriminations - only a moment of loneliness that verged on the unbearable - and then... nothing.

For so long - nothing.

The empty silence echoing in his mind, Admiral Jean-Luc Picard sat up, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed, resting his head in his hands, chasing off the remnants of the thoughts and worries that had filled his mind every night since the day of Data's death, more than four years before, wishing the guilt that filled him were as easily pushed away.

I failed you, Data; I failed you, Dee, he thought to himself, the shame welling up in him once more.

I failed you all.

I should have been better, he thought, better at all those things they had expected of me, better at all those things I had promised I would do - but time and circumstances always seemed to get in the way.

And I let them, he admitted; I let them stop me, delay me, postpone me time and again from doing all that I had told myself I would do - until it was too late.

He drew a long breath, fighting back the pain - then shivered, the cool of the cabin's air cutting through his sweat-soaked night clothes. Reaching for the robe that was stretched over the foot of his bed, he rose, pulled the robe on, and stepped toward the nightstand and the carafe of water that stood there.

Removing the inverted glass that rested atop the bottle, he poured a glass of water, drained it quickly, then started to set the glass back on the table when a flicker of movement caught his eye.

It was nothing but his own image reflected in the mirror over the table, he realized at once - but nonetheless, he took a moment to stare at that image, to study the man who looked back at him.

I'm old, he thought as he studied his own image; not getting older, not getting old - I _am_ old.

Hair that had been a dignified silver-grey only a few years before was turning pronouncedly white; the taut flesh of his face, still reflecting his lean, muscled frame, had grown pale and colorless, giving him a faintly unhealthy, gaunt appearance - and the lines that marked that flesh had deepened with time, marking him as a man who had spent too much time frowning and worrying - and too little time smiling and relaxing.

I am old, he repeated to the man in the mirror; I'm seventy-nine - almost eighty - and I'm looking every hour of every year.

He was still staring at himself, frowning, wondering how he had come to this, wondering where the time - and all his plans for his life - had gone when the door to his quarters slid back, startling him back to the present. Straightening, he tightened the belt of his robe as he turned to face the intruder.

"You know, you don't have to bring me tea just because I woke up, B-4," Picard informed the android as he entered the room, a porcelain cup of the stewing brew in his hands, just as he had informed him virtually every morning for the last four years.

"Yes, sir," the machine replied, its voice as stilted, as uncolored by emotion or intelligence as it had been the first time Picard had heard it. Without further comment - and most likely, without further thought - the android placed the cup on the table, then stepped back, waiting.

Picard smiled to himself. How B-4 had come to decide that Picard wanted a cup of Earl Grey tea upon waking he had never fully determined; most likely it was some vestige of Data's memory that had transferred itself to the more primitive android's brain - and there it had remained ever since, firmly and unyielding affixed.

It had taken a few weeks, and quite a number of awkward moments, before B-4 had come to understand - if B-4 could be said to really understand anything - that the act of waking and the desire for a cup tea were not always directly related. After a few experiences of getting up in the middle of the night to relieve himself only to find the android waiting with the obligatory cup of tea, Picard had finally given the android directions to wait until he heard at least ten minutes of sounds indicative of his full waking before preparing the tea.

A few months before, when the first nights of restlessness and troubling thoughts had begun to wake him in the small hours of the morning, he had considered amending that direction once again, suspecting the cup of strong tea was not conducive to returning to sleep - but sleep, he had come to learn, was not his to command, unwilling to be ordered to come and go at his direction. After a few nights of lying in his bed, waiting for sleep to return, he had come to welcome B-4's interruption and the tea, and resolved to use the otherwise 'wasted' time to some useful purpose.

Most nights, that useful purpose was related to his work; in the last few weeks, it had been focused on preparing his notes and equipment for the upcoming dig - but for the last few days, he had had another use for this extra time.

"Thank you, B-4," he had told the android, finishing the cup and handing it back to the android. "I'm going to get dressed now," he added, gently dismissing the android from his private space.

Still, the android seemed to hesitate. "You are going... there?" he asked.

Picard nodded. "I'm going to Engineering, yes," he answered quietly. "Did you want to come with me?" he added, though the suspected he knew the answer.

B-4 looked at the man with a perfectly blank expression - but after four years together, Picard knew the android well enough to know when he was troubled by an idea.

"No," B-4 replied at last. "I... do not like that place," he explained - though why the location bothered him, he was unable to explain - if he even understood the reason for his hesitancy.

Picard did, however, and he nodded gently. "You'll stay here then?" he asked.

B-4 considered. "May I visit Commander Troi?" he asked.

Picard smiled. "It's two in the morning, B-4; that's a little early for visiting." And, at almost five months pregnant, Deanna was probably in need of as much sleep as she could get, he added; entertaining a lonely android in the middle of the night was not what the mother-to-be needed. She would have her hands filled with that task for the next four weeks, he added, wondering once again if he should have found other arrangements for B-4.

Arrangements for B-4, he mused, wondering, once more, exactly how he had come to be the guardian for Dr. Noonian Soongh's prototype android. Certainly there were a half dozen institutes that would have been a better place for him, places that might have helped him to integrate Data's knowledge into his own matrix - and, perhaps, in time, have allowed him to make more use of the vast wealth of knowledge.

Or not, he conceded; perhaps B-4's postironic net was too primitive, or perhaps there was some basic incompatibility between the two memory systems - but the sad truth was that, with a few exceptions, a few flashes of Data's personality and memories, B-4 was - and probably would always be - only a pale shadow of his younger brother.

And yet there was something in his innocence, his simple naivet , that reminded Picard of Data in his younger days; though B-4 would never have anything approaching the intellectual capacity of his sibling, there was something endearing about the limited being.

It was those limitations, however, that had presented the greatest difficult in the months that had followed the ship's return to Earth; if B-4 were less intelligent than Data, was he sentient - or was he simply a machine? And if he was sentient, was he mentally capable of choosing his own path? And if he was just a machine, to whom did he belong? And - most importantly - who was to decide?

In the end, though, B-4 had decided for himself, placing himself in Picard's quarters after one of the countless hearings to decide his fate, and declining to leave.

And he had remained at the man's side ever since.

It had taken Picard some time to make the adjustment; after spending the majority of his life alone, he had found the presence of another person - even a person as limited and quiet as B-4 - uncomfortable, and for a time, he had endured the presence of the android only out of a sense of duty to his late friend.

But the sense of duty faded, and a strange companionship had evolved in its place: not friendship, for B-4 did not have the emotional awareness to be a friend - but something different, something simpler. Picard smiled to himself; in so many ways, he mused, it reminded him of his relationship with his children, Maribor and Batai.

And perhaps that was not an inappropriate comparison, he decided; despite his size and age, B-4 was, after all, little more than a child.

And I, he realized, I am a parent... again.

A parent who was about to take an extended trip away from his child, he added - but there was no way to take B-4 on this dig, he knew equally well. Even if the Kvesterians would have permitted an android to accompany them - which they would not - he knew he would have spent more time telling B-4 what to do - and what not to do - and not focusing on the other aspects of the dig.

Not that the dig was so that important, he reminded himself, a brief pang of guilt welling up in him; the Kvesterians would undoubtedly ascertain the truth about the site with or without his help - but time, he thought grimly, was passing faster and faster every year; this dig might be - indeed, probably would be - the last one in which he ever participated. He wanted to enjoy this dig - and having to watch and worry over the android and his actions was not conducive to either his efficiency - or his enjoyment.

Then again, he could hardly enjoy himself if he wasn't certain that B-4 was in capable and caring hands. The problem had left him wondering - and worrying - about what to do, until Will and Deanna had offered - insisted, actually - that B-4 would stay with them while he was at the dig.

A little practice for raising a child of their own, Deanna had explained - but that had only been the official reason.

The real reason, they all knew, was that Will wanted to host his former captain - on his former ship. After all, Picard could hardly decline the offer of transportation to and from the dig site if his hosts were also acting as baby-sitter to his ward.

Picard smiled, in part at Will's manipulations, but in greater part at how everything had turned out.

Despite his enjoyment of his role as a Starfleet captain, exploring deep space was, he knew, a young man's game; that Starfleet Command had allowed him to retain his ship as long as they did spoke volumes about his abilities as an officer, a scientist and an ambassador - but it also spoke of the effect of the Dominion War on the up and coming ranks of junior officers. With no one truly qualified to replace him, they had allowed him to keep his ship far longer than any other previous officer. And, he admitted with more than a rueful grin, it spoke volumes about his tendency to be impolitic with the powers that be; he was not, and never would be, a man to play the games the Admiralty enjoyed - and they knew it as well.

But just as the ranks of Starfleet had been depleted for command officers, so it had been depleted for qualified candidates for admirals - and, as he knew it would, the call that so many captains had anxiously awaited throughout their careers had finally to come to a less-than-enthusiastic Jean-Luc Picard.

In truth, accepting the offer was not an option; he would either have to take it - or leave Starfleet altogether, but even so, the idea of giving up the Enterprise to another captain had been difficult.

Or rather, it would have been difficult to give her up to just _any_ other captain, he added with a smile.

But Will Riker was not just _any_ other captain.

He smiled, as pleased now as he was the day that he learned that Will, finishing up his tour on the Titan, had been offered the Enterprise - and had accepted. It had made his own promotion to admiral easier to take, knowing his ship would remain in good hands.

It had, however, taken a year and a half before Will could find an excuse to invite the man back as his guest - but when the Kvesterians had requested that Starfleet transport them and their equipment to Samarassia IV and the archaeologic site there, Will had quickly offered his ship for the mission - on the condition that the Kvesterians invite Picard as their guest.

Picard grinned to himself, knowing Will could not possibly known what he had set himself up for: Kvesterians, as a rule, were both extremely opinionated and obsessively certain about the correctness of those opinions - and Professor Femishar, Kvestera's foremost archaeologist and the dig leader, set the standard for his people in both behaviors. After a week of having them aboard, Picard knew Will would be seriously reconsidering any future offers to archaeologic teams - even if they were the only way to get his former captain back on his ship.

It wasn't, of course, Picard thought - but while a Starfleet admiral might have more privileges, they also had more obligations - and the privileges had to find their time and place around those obligations. But after almost five years without taking more than the occasional weekend leave, Picard had jumped at the chance to join the Kvesterians at the dig.

After all, Samarassia IV was long rumored to be the site of one of the proto-Romulan words, an interim world colonized as the Vulcan dissenters searched for a new world of their own - and the multiple topographical and geomagnetic anomalies that had been found there suggested that the rumors might be right. Unfortunately, the worlds of Samarasa had once been part of the space held by the Kvesterians - and as such they had taken first claim to the dig - and to the information it provided. To date, nothing outside those first anomalies had been made public - but the rumors had continued to grow with every passing year.

It had only been through Will's skillful negotiations - negotiations that had probably included the threat to leave the Kvesterians on their home world, Picard thought - that Will had managed to inveigle an invitation for his former captain,

Correction, Picard thought, his mood growing dour once again; two invitations. That had been his requirement to Will when he had learned of the former first officer's plans - a place for himself on the dig - and a place for Beverly as well.

He sighed, then glanced at the flashing yellow indicator on the communications panel, knowing he needed to listen to the message in full - and respond - but the first few moment of the message had told him all he really needed to know.

"Damn it, Jean-Luc," Beverly had sighed as she recorded the message, "why aren't you there? I really need to talk to you - and I haven't got much time. Actually," she added a moment later, "I don't have _any_ time. Professor Jackson just called me. She was to be the keynote speaker at the conference on molecular neurobiology on Aldo Three - but there's been an outbreak of Correlian fever at the Telos colony, and she's scrambling to get enough people and supplies there to get it under control before it turns into an epidemic. She asked me to present her speech - and in light of the situation, I have to go. I'm sorry; I know I promised I would make it this time, but I won't be able to join you at the dig after all..." she had continued - but he had shut it off, having heard the same message often enough to know the apologies and the promises by heart.

What did I expect? He asked himself grimly. She's made it plain enough that whatever we once had - or rather, wish we once had - was that: a wish - and nothing more. It's time to move on with my life - alone, he added, then looking back at B-4 who was still standing by the nightstand, amended, or perhaps, not so alone.

"B-4, if you wouldn't mind, I would like another cup of tea," he informed the android. "And, after I get dressed, I'll take you to a place I think you'll enjoy. Captain Riker informs me that there is a large koi pond in the arborteum..."

"What is a koi pond?" B-4 interrupted.

"Koi are fish, B-4; very large, pretty fish," Picard explained.

"Like my fish?" B-4 asked, a glimmer of pleasure in his usually expressionless face.

Picard nodded. "Like your fish," he agreed, reflecting on the small aquarium he had installed in his apartment on Earth. B-4 had taken an instant fascination with the denizens of that world, and spent hours at a time simply staring into the water-filled space, watching with the intense concentration of an android - or a child.

Whichever, Picard thought, it kept B-4 occupied when he had work of his own to do - or when he slept.

"I like my fish," B-4 replied.

"I know. That's why I think you'll like the koi pond as well," Picard said gently.

"May we go now?" B-4 pressed.

Drawing from the patience he had developed long ago, Picard sighed, then shook his head. "Not yet. I'm going to shower and dress, and you were going to make me another cup of tea. Then," he said with a gently emphasis on the condition, "we can go."

B-4 hesitated for a moment, the information processing in his positronic net, then turned and headed from the room.

Picard watched the door slide shut behind him, then shook his head even as he smiled, memories of the children he never had washing over him. Thinking of them, he stepped into the washroom, turned on the shower, then stripped and stepped into the steaming waterfall.

I miss them, Picard thought; I miss the children they were, the wonderful adults who they became...

But B-4 would never become an adult, he remembered suddenly. He was, and would always be a child.

But I will not always be here to be his parent, he realized abruptly, the reality of his own mortality suddenly flashing through his mind.

And when I'm gone, who will be there to care for him?


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Geordi LaForge touched the leads from the probe to each end of the exposed circuit, turned his head to look at the monitor - and frowned.

It should be working, he argued silently with the machine; I've checked every millimeter of the wiring, the capacitor, the stator, the plexor... they each worked independently, he reminded the machine in protest - then sighed as he conceded the issue: the circuit didn't work.

It should, he insisted; I copied it component for component, fiber for fiber, line for line - and those worked - so why doesn't this one function?

Well, maybe it does, he added in wordless frustration; the problem with reverse engineering was that you had to make some assumptions - and one of those assumptions was that the basic tenants of your technology matched those of another. If you put power through one end of a patent circuit, the power would be detectable on the other side of the circuit. Modified, yes; that's what the circuit's components were intended to do - but in one form or another, to one degree or another, there should be power on the other side of the circuit.

Assuming, of course, he conceded, that's what it's supposed to do, But maybe it's not. Maybe it only works when the input power is modified in some way - at a given frequency, or in a given quantity, or at a given time.

Maybe it only works when it's part of a whole system, he mused - except if it only works as a whole, how can I ever figure out which part isn't working?

I can't, he admitted; all I can do is go back to the beginning and try to recreate everything from scratch - again.

How many times would that make it? he wondered. A dozen? Two? - and none of them have worked.

Or at least, not worked for long, he added. There had been a few times when he had turned the system power on - and for a moment, for a glorious, heart-rending moment, there had been the glimmer of success - only to watch as the light faded away - and with it his hopes.

And for a day - or two - he would turn away, resolving not to pour his time, energy - and hope - after a dream that could never be realized.

But dreams were made of stronger stuff, Geordi reminded himself; they persevered, even when he thought he could not - and after a few days of reflection and, he admitted ruefully, self-pity, he had returned to his project, determined, once again, to find a way to succeed.

But trial and error - especially trial and error on several hundred thousand components - was, for all practical purposes pointless - especially, Geordi thought, when you have no baseline for comparison. For all I know, this is exactly what this circuit should be doing under these circumstances; that I assume it's going to do what other circuits do under similar circumstances is an unwarranted supposition.

After all, every component in the circuit checks out individually - and I know the wiring is correct - so maybe the only thing wrong with this circuit is my expectation, he decided.

So why the hell doesn't it work?! he grumbled, setting the circuit back in place, removing the next one in line, and beginning the process once again.

He had just touched the probe to the circuit contact when he heard the faint change in the noise level of the engineering bay behind him - and he smiled to himself. After almost half a life spent in this room, he mused, I can identify almost every sound that the engines and the ship's systems could make in every circumstance - but there were only a few things that could cause the terrified hush that had just filled the room behind him.

Without looking up, he said, "You're up early, Cap... I mean Admiral," he said, then, setting down the probe, turned to Picard. "I still haven't gotten used to that, sir. Admiral Picard," he repeated, a touch of awe filling him - the same touch of awe that had stilled even the usually quiet night crew as the man had walked through the bay.

Picard smiled back. "It shouldn't be that difficult, Geordi; it has been almost two years, after all," he reminded the engineer.

"But, truth be told," he conceded, his voice dropping somewhat, "I'm not used to it myself. Every now and then, someone will call out to 'Admiral Picard' - and it takes me a moment to realize they mean me," he said.

Geordi gave a nod. "I understand - I think. You were a captain for a long time..."

Picard shook his head. "It's not that, Geordi - I think," he added. "I don't remember having any difficulty accepting my promotion to being a captain."

The engineer raised a brow. "If I were a counselor, I would say there was something Freudian in what you just said," he replied quietly.

"Meaning...?" Picard countered.

Geordi gave a slight shrug. "Meaning... not everyone is cut out to be an admiral," he said.

"Indeed?"

"No," Geordi said firmly. "Begging your pardon, but..." He drew a short breath. "You shouldn't have taken the promotion, sir. You were the best captain there was, Captain; you were meant to be out here, exploring, not piloting a desk back on Earth," he admonished the man.

Picard gave the engineer a hard look - then sighed in concession. "You may be right, Geordi," he agreed, "but keeping the center seat wasn't an option. Exploring space is game for young men - and I'm not young anymore. I was given the choice of taking the promotion - or taking retirement. And I wasn't ready to retire," he added - but there was something in his manner that belied his words.

Geordi nodded thoughtfully, understanding too well the dilemma that had faced - but wondering, not for the first time, if the choice he had made had been the right one.

Of course, it's easy for me to question his decision, Geordi added; I wasn't the one facing the choice of a desk - or the end of a career. When my time comes, they're not going to put me behind a desk - they'll put me in front one - or more likely a dozen - teaching at the Academy.

Whether I want it or not, he added, remembering the offer that Starfleet had made to him just a few years before, when Will Riker had been offered the captaincy of the Enterprise. Will had asked him to stay on with the ship - but the powers that be had other plans for him. They had offered him a posting at Starfleet Academy, heading up the engineering department - but Geordi knew he wasn't yet ready to step away from the active role he played on the flagship of the fleet. He had turned down the offer - only to be informed that while the options was his this time, it wouldn't always be so.

Unlike the captain, the choice was his - this time. Next time...

He sighed.

Well, at least I'll still be involved in engineering, he mused, not able to consider what the prospect of a life without his engines - at least in some form - would be like - and wondering all the more what Picard's life, without his ship, without space, had been like.

Not easy, he concluded, looking at the officer - and not happy, either. It had only been two years, but the man seemed to have aged a dozen in that same time; not just physically, Geordi added, but spiritually as well. The vitality and vigor that had marked his very being seemed to have faded away, leaving the man a pale shadow of what he had once been.

But life away from Starfleet would have been doubly difficult, Geordi conceded; at least as an admiral he had some opportunities to visit the stars that had been his home for so long - like now, he thought, smiling to himself.

Picard must have had a thought along the same line, for he looked around the room as if reacquainting himself with the sights - then gave a contented sigh. "But it's good to be back," he added.

"And it's good to have you back," Geordi agreed. "We've missed having you around."

Picard smiled. "Don't let Captain Riker hear you say that," he said lightly. "He'll accuse me of bucking for his job," he added.

"After all the years he wanted yours, it would only be fair, Captain," Geordi countered, laughing, then sobered. "Do you ever miss it, Captain?" he asked. "I mean, do you ever think about running a ship again?"

Picard thought for a moment, contemplating the question - then shook his head. "No. Oh, there was a time, I'll admit, when it was all I could think about - but... I've moved on," he said.

Geordi studied the man, wondering if he thought the engineer was being fooled by his words - or if Picard was just fooling himself.

Or neither, Geordi decided a moment later, seeing the nostalgia in the former captain's eye - and then the sad smile on his face. "No, you're quite right, Geordi; I do miss it - but," he added, the light growing in his expression, a hint of his former self returning, "there are some advantages to being an admiral," he informed the man. "After all, how often did I take a month of leave when I was here?" he asked.

Geordi sighed, relieved that Picard's wistfulness had faded - and nodded his head, the man's point taken. "Never - but you could have," he pointed out. "You just never did."

"I could have - but I always found something more important - or more interesting - to fill my time," he countered.

"And now?"

Picard smiled ruefully, then looked away, staring out at the room around him - but not truly seeing it, Geordi knew.

"Now?" Picard mused softly. "Now... Let's just say that there's very little I do that someone else can't do - and equally well. Being an admiral may be prestigious in many senses - the rank does have its privileges - but it's also humbling; everyone who reaches that rank has earned it..."

"I'd beg to differ on that point," Geordi countered. "There is no way that Thaddeus Czymszczyk has earned that position. Bought it - maybe; but earned it? No," he said adamantly.

Picard continued, ignoring the contentious issue they had discussed so many times before, "... and you become but one of many, with little to distinguish you from the others - and doubly so when you are the junior-most of the lot." His voice trailed off as he stared at something that the man beside him couldn't see.

And never likely to go beyond that position, he admitted. With the war over, there was little need to expand the ranks of the admiralty beyond its present size. Even if one of the higher ranked admirals chose to leave, it was unlikely that he would be offered the opportunity to take his place; he had the bucked the authority of the admiralty too many times for them to want him as anything more than a token member - and as the oldest of the group, it was unlikely that he would outlive the others and move up the ranks through sheer attrition.

I'm getting older, he reminded himself, old enough to know that when the time came for someone to replace an admiral, the odds were that it would be his shoes that someone was trying to fill - and it wouldn't be that difficult, he knew.

Geordi fell silent, allowing the man his thoughts, then softly offered, "I'm sorry."

The voice, quiet as it was, startled the man, bring him back to the present; he turned to the engineer as if not having realized the man was there - then smiled. "Don't be, Geordi. It's given me some time to reevaluate my life - at least what's left of it - and," he added with a forced smile, "to enjoy it. You were right; I could have taken an extended leave when I captained the Enterprise, Geordi - but I put other things ahead of my personal goals; now, I can indulge."

The engineer laughed. "Four weeks in a rain forest, digging the foundation of a primitive Romulan settlement out of ten thousand years of accumulated plant growth and soil shift? Hmm, yes, that's an indulgence, all right, Captain," he joked.

Picard laughed. "To each his own, Geordi; how many times did you take leave in order to attend a technical conference? But in any case, I'll only be with the Kvesterians for a few days."

"From what I hear, a few days is about all anyone can take!" Geordi said.

Picard gave a half shrug. "I'll admit they can be a bit... overwhelming," he agreed. "But in any case, after a few days to establish their base camp, I'll be off to study the gravitic anomalies."

"That's right," Geordi replied. "Leaving the dig in the rainforest to pursue a possible dig in one of the hottest deserts on the planet; yeah, that would be my first choice for how to spend my leisure time, too, Captain," he agreed.

Picard smiled. "To each his own, to each his own," he repeated, looking at the room around them, thinking Geordi's leisure time was spent on indulgences - or perhaps obsessions - of his own. He nodded at the open circuit on the test panel. "So how is it going?" he asked. "Anything new since yesterday?" he asked, more from habit than from real hope.

"So far, everything tests out fine - I think," Geordi admitted. "Of course, I'm not entirely sure what results I should be getting. Based on what the technology I know, the circuits are all failures - but when I compare them to ones we have, they meet the same standards. Of course, I don't know if that means they work - or if we're comparing it to a circuit that's non-functional."

Picard raised a brow. "Non-functional?" he repeated. "But..."

"Sir," Geordi said softly, "even after all these years, we don't know exactly how Dr. Soongh was able to construct his androids. What few notes we've found over the years have been sketchy at best; he didn't seem interested in leaving his work for posterity to improve upon," he said. "I appreciate you and B-4 allowing me to study his circuits and positronic net - but for all I know, B-4 is as he is because his circuits don't work correctly - or at all. Comparing these circuits to his may not be a valid basis of comparison. The problem is that Dr. Soongh never detailed his frame of reference; he didn't see the need because he understood what his basic assumptions were and saw no need to document them for future reference."

"Quite probably." Picard agreed, "From what I've read of the man, he had quite an ego; he didn't appear to accept the need for such documentation, because he couldn't accept that anyone would be capable of grasping his fundamental precepts - and, quite possibly, because he couldn't accept the possibility that he might not live long enough to see the fulfillment of his work," Picard mused. "Accepting one's mortality isn't an easy thing," he added, more to himself than to the other man.

Geordi nodded, suspecting that, in Dr. Soongh's case, the issue was as much vanity as well as his inability to accept the transience of his physical existence; from what little he knew of the man, Dr. Soongh would never have accept the possibility that he could have been bettered by anyone.

And maybe he was right, Geordi added wordlessly; after all, even Data had not been able to successfully duplicate his creator's work.

And, for that matter, Geordi thought, even Noonian Soongh had only been fully successful once - and the result of that work, Lore, the android creation that came closest to being fully human, had also embodied the worst of humanity's attributes - and had been responsible for the death of his creator.

Had Dr. Soongh lived longer, however...

Had he lived longer, Geordi concluded, we might not be here today, struggling to figure what his methodology was.

And all this work would be unnecessary.

"No," Geordi sighed, "accepting mortality - anyone's mortality - is not an easy thing at all."

Which is why I come down here every night and work on this - and why you come down every night to watch, he silently reminded Picard.

Because some things just weren't meant to end.

He pulled the leads from the circuit, snapped the circuit out of the holder, then turned, slid it back into place, and closed the cover.

"Let's give it a try," he announced.

Startled, Picard looked at him. "I thought you said you couldn't find the fault in the circuits," he said.

"I can't - but for all I know, Captain, there is no fault," he said. "But I can only do what I know how to do - and I'll keep on doing it until I get it right. So every night, I take apart one part of the circuit, test it out, put it back in - and turn it on. I have to do something - even if I'm not sure what it is," he added, a hint of desperation in his voice.

And then I watch as it doesn't work once again, and I go have a drink and mourn the loss of the best friend I ever had, he added silently - and that's what I'll keep on doing until I either find the answer - or I face my own mortality, he admitted.

Picard clapped a hand on shoulder, understanding all too well the determination - and the grief - that filled the man.

"Go ahead, Geordi" he said softly. "Give it one more try."

Geordi nodded, then turned his attention to the diagnostic panel, running a test currently through the system, looking for any obvious shorts. When the panel finally turned green, he nodded, touched the current release control - and waited.

There was a jolt, a convulsive spasm - but it meant nothing, Geordi knew; it always happened, a reflexive response to the power being reinitiated - and still it sent a thrill through him, a hope - a dream - that for once, it had worked.

But the convulsion ended a moment later, as it always did - and with it, the hope.

They watched for a long moment, waiting, hoping - then Geordi turned away, reaching for the power switch.

But before he could touch the toggle control, Picard reached out, stopping him before he could terminate the power. "Geordi," he said softly.

Following his gaze, Geordi turned - and stared.

He opened his eyes, staring out, confused - and yet not confused. He knew this place, knew where it was, where he was, who he was - and yet, something was... wrong.

No, not wrong; different.

As though his memories had been altered, amended... changed in some slight, imperceptible way.

It took a moment of elapsed time - but tens of thousands of moments for him - to understand.

The conflict was not from within him - but from without. The room was different from what he remembered, the colors, the smells the sounds - all different. And the people standing before him...

They were different as well.

He stared at his friend, lines deeply etched across his brow and at the corners of his eyes, then at the white haired man standing before him, and found himself bewildered by the sudden aging he saw in both of them.

And doubly bewildered by the tear he saw streaming down the elder man's face.

He reached out to comfort his friend - only to find his movement checked. Looking down, he found his arm secured in place by a heavy restraint. Now thoroughly confused, he looked up at the white-haired man.

"Captain?" he started - then stopped, studied the pips at the man's collar, and tried again. "Admiral?" he said, then looked down at the restraints. "I am confused, sir. What had happened? Is something wrong?"

Picard stared into the golden eyes facing him - and smiled. "No," he said softly. "Nothing's wrong."

He reached forward, tapping the switch that controlled the restraints, then stepped closer.

"No, nothing's wrong; not anymore," he repeated - then extended his hand in greeting.

"Welcome back... Data."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Data?" Geordi whispered in shocked astonishment. "Is that you?"

The being in question cocked his head to one side, falling silent as it considered - then straightened. "That is a most difficult question to answer, Geordi; indeed, it is one of the more perplexing questions that philosophers throughout the generations - and across the species - have tried to answer - if the question can be answered. Can one know if one is one's self? Does not our perspective of self require us to assume that we are 'ourselves'? Yet, it has been argued, convincingly, that..."

Geordi looked at Picard and smiled. "It's Data, alright" he said.

"Indeed," Picard agreed, equally relieved.

"Then apparently, I am me," Data agreed - then gave both of the men a troubled look. "Who else would I be?" he asked worriedly.

Geordi grinned at his friend. "No one, Data - it's... It's a long story, Data. It's just good to have you back," he said.

"Back?" Data echoed, confused. "That is the second time you have used that term. Have I been away, sir?" he asked, looking to Picard.

Picard gave a soft laugh, part of amusement - and part of a relief that stirred him to the depths of his soul. "You have, indeed, Data," he answered, "but you're back now. Here, let's get you out of there..." he said, reaching for the controls for the remaining restraints that held the android upright in the vertical assembly frame - but Geordi's cautionary voice stopped him before he could reach the man.

"I wouldn't do that, Captain," he said warningly.

Startled, Picard glanced back at the engineer, the worried question plain on his face.

"Oh, it's Data's mind, all right, and his personality," Geordi reassured the man, "but I've been spending my time focusing on his neural net and his memory systems - not on his physical components," he explained. "I haven't run any testing on his motor systems, let alone test them with the new neural components in place," he gently cautioned Picard. "In theory, everything should work - but I hate to damage his neural net because his equilibrium circuit isn't functioning correctly."

"Of course," Picard agreed, chastising himself silently for being so eager.

Too eager, he admitted; I'm trying to appease my guilt over Data's death by rushing to proclaim him 'reborn'. That his mind can be rebuilt is one thing - but it is a far cry from having the Data we knew returned to us - if such a thing is even possible, he added.

After all, Geordi has come close to success more than once before - only to watch as Data's burgeoning neural net collapse and fail - and to watch as his friend died again before his eyes. To watch it happen again, especially after the last few minutes...

He looked at the engineer, wondering how Geordi had dared put himself through the emotional nightmare time and again - but, he reminded himself, friendship dares - or it's not friendship.

He studied the two for a silent, solemn moment - then nodded.

"Of course," he repeated, then turned to Data. "Bear with us, Data; we'll get you out of there as soon as possible," he said quietly.

"I'm going to have to start with a level one diagnostic, Admiral," Geordi warned, cautioning the man against hoping for a premature outcome from the necessary procedures and tests.

"That will not be necessary, Geordi; I am fully capable of running a self-diagnostic..." Data began - then stopped, a look of puzzlement - then concern - covering his face. "Geordi, I cannot perform a self-diagnostic; I cannot access the program... Geordi, I do not have a self-diagnostic program!" he added a moment later, an expression of consternation growing on his face.

"It's all right, Data," Geordi said instantly. "I haven't installed those programs yet..."

" 'Installed'? But they should not need to be installed!" he protested. "They are a part of my integral being! What has happened to them? Geordi, what has happened to me?" Data asked, a look, somewhere between hope and terrible worry covering his face.

Geordi looked at Picard, uncertain as to what to say - then looked back at his friend - but before he could answer, Data continued.

"Geordi, you are worrying me," he confessed. "Something has happened to me - something has happened all of us! The captain - the admiral," he amended. "has changed rank, Engineering has been altered - and you both have aged significantly. All these points would suggest that time has elapsed - time that has not been recorded by my neural net - and yet I know that is not possible."

Geordi studied the android for a long moment - then blew out a sigh. "Yes, it is possible, Data - because you haven't been here to record those events," he said at last.

"Not here? I have been... away?" Data asked confused.

The engineer nodded.

"Where? And for how long?"

The engineer hesitated.

"You must tell me, Geordi," Data admonished his friend. "I cannot access my internal chronometer - let alone the ship's. My memories terminate with the downloading of my memories for B-4 - but it is apparent that events have transpired in the interim." He gave the engineer a beseeching look. "Please, Geordi, what has happened? How long have I been... gone?"

"Four years, Data," Picard said after a long moment, sparing his former engineer the task.

"Four years," Data echoed, then thought for an instant. "And, during this time, I have been... where?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral - but there was no disguising the worry and fear in his eyes.

The two humans glanced at each other.

"Admiral?" Data pressed. "Geordi?"

"Data..." Picard started, then hesitated for a moment. "You weren't anywhere. You died."

Data stared at the elderly human. "Died," he echoed dully.

Geordi nodded slowly. "In a conflict with the Remans. You sacrificed yourself to save the ship," he added proudly - and sadly.

"Ah," Data replied, cocking his head as if trying to pull up the missing memory file - then looked at the two once more. "I do not remember doing so," he admitted a moment later.

Despite himself, Geordi smiled. "No, I don't expect that you do."

Picard interrupted the two. "Didn't you say that the last memory you have was of downloading your memory files for B-4?"

The android nodded - then gave the two a pleased look as he realized what he had done. "Apparently my cranial and cervical motor servos are functioning," he announced happily - then allowed his expression to fade as he returned to the question. "Yes, that is the last thing I remember - reaching to terminate the process... and then I was here," he replied - then gave Geordi a surprised but curious look. "Then these must be B-4's engrams!" he announced.

"Technically, Data, they're yours," Geordi corrected him. "B-4's just been holding on to them while we've tried to recreate a positronic net that can support them. Unfortunately, Dr. Soongh didn't leave a lot of notes on how he was able to create your brain, Data. We could have used Lore's brain as a reference, of course..."

"That would presume that the personality defects that Lore demonstrated were programming errors, and not a result of its design, Geordi," the android commented, "and I do not believe that contention could be supported adequately."

"Which is why we used B-4's neural net, rather than Lore's, for the foundation of your net," Geordi agreed.

Data looked back at his friend, horrified. "Geordi, you have not given me B-4's neural network, have you?"

The engineer stared back at his friend, confused - then laughed as he realized the source of Data's concern. "I'd forgotten how literal you could be, Data. No, we didn't cannibalize B-4 to rebuild you," he chuckled. "I meant we used the schematics of B-4's neural net to create a new net for you."

"And B-4? He is...?" Data began, doubtfully.

"He's fine, Data," Picard reassured him. "He's been with me ever since..." His voice trailed off as he realized the enormity of what had happened in the last few minutes - then began once again. "He's fine, Data," he repeated. "I left him in the arboretum. Will informed me that..."

"Will?" Data interrupted, curious. "Do you mean William Riker? Captain Riker? He is on this ship as well? I thought he had been assigned to the Titan."

Picard nodded. "He was. Now, he's on the Enterprise; this is his ship, Data," he said softly.

Data looked at the man in surprise - and earned a rueful smile in return. "A lot has changed while you've been... away," Picard added.

"Indeed," Data answered his eyes widening at the realization of just how much had changed.

"And speaking of Captain Riker," Geordi said, "I should notify him about what's happened." He gave his friend a look of relief and joy. "He - we all - have been waiting for this day, Data," he added softly.

Seeing the expressions of pain on his friends' faces, Data nodded. "I am sorry I could not facilitate the process," he apologized.

"That's all right, Data." Geordi consoled his friend. "Now that you're back, you can help me make up for lost time."

"I... would like that," the android agreed.

"Me, too, Data," Geordi said, clapping the android on the shoulder. "Me, too," he repeated earnestly - then turned around, his gaze pouring over the room, then called out to one of the technicians. "Michiko!"

A young woman, short, raven haired, with ancestry that must have come from Earth's Orient, hurried to Geordi's side - and smiled at him with more than a touch of familiarity. "Yes, Commander?" she said, her professional tone belying her expression.

Geordi's return was equally familiar, equally friendly - and equally professional. "Michiko, would you please inform Captain Riker that we have a situation here that requires his attention?" he said.

Despite her ease with the man, her eyes widened in dread. "Yes, sir," she said instantly - then added, more slowly, "May I take the liberty of pointing out that it is not yet oh four hundred hours, sir?"

"I'm aware of that, Lieutenant," Geordi answered with a grin. "Don't worry; the captain may roar a little when you wake him up in the middle of the night - but he'll quiet down - especially when he finds out what it's about," he added.

"It's not the captain that I'm worried about, sir," she countered. "It's Commander Troi."

Data, listening in on the exchange, frowned. "Commander Troi was always understanding of the unpredictable requirements of command," he objected. "I do not believe she would be overly upset by such an interruption, even at this hour - or has that changed as well?"

Geordi smiled back at his friend. "Commander Troi hasn't changed, Data, but her pregnancy is playing havoc with her moods."

"The Commander is pregnant?" Data gaped, wide-eyed.

"Five months," Picard replied.

"Much _has_ changed," Data repeated, astonished.

Despite the solemnity of the moment, Picard grinned. "Indeed it has, Data; indeed it has." Still smiling, he turned to the woman waiting at Geordi's side. "Inform the captain - and the commander - that I made the request, Lieutenant..." He hesitated a moment, embarrassed that he couldn't recall the woman's name.

"It's Aramaki, Admiral," she replied quickly. "Lt. Michiko Aramaki."

He nodded, filing the bit of data away for the future. "Inform Captain Riker and Commander Troi that Admiral Picard is the one requesting - only requesting - their presence, Lt. Aramaki," he repeated.

She nodded, then hurried away, as Picard turned to Geordi, a faintly smug expression on his face.

"Better you than me, admiral," the engineer murmured. "The counselor is not a happy person when she's doesn't get enough sleep."

Data frowned. "Intolerance for a disruption of one's routine and an unwillingness to follow a superior's orders may prove problematic for an officer in a command position," he pointed out.

"It would," Picard replied, turning back to the android, "if Commander Troi were in a command position. However, she voluntarily stepped down from her duties last month."

A good thing too, he thought, as the physical stresses on her body and the unborn child's interference with her empathic abilities were beginning to affect her ability to perform those duties. Fortunately, she was far too much the Starfleet officer to allow herself to continue to serve when she was unable to meet the requirement of the job, and had removed herself from active duty - a decision that had been hers and hers alone, he added silently, glad for Will's sake that he hadn't had to broach the idea. Had that become a necessity, it could have proved contentious at best - and, at worst, disastrous for their marriage - but Deanna had realized the situation for herself and stepped down - at least for the time being, Picard added.

"Given the circumstances," Picard continued, "she's not under any obligation to follow orders - even from an admiral. But I'm hoping she answer a request from an old friend," he added.

"She'd probably answer it more happily if you were the one to make the request, Captain," Geordi remarked, "rather than my sending Michiko."

Picard gave him a caustic look. "They don't promote you Admiral for being stupid, Commander. Rank hath its privileges - and I'm going to use them, especially when it means I can delegate out these more _dangerous_ tasks," he informed the man. "But," he added with a smile, "regardless of how she's feeling, I doubt Deanna would take it out on the Lieutenant."

No, Geordi agreed; Michiko was probably safe - though I'm not sure I'd want to be Captain Riker for the next few minutes, he added silently.

"Geordi," Data interjected, "may I ask you a personal question?"

"It's been a long time since you've asked me that, Data," the engineer replied, grinning. "Sure, go ahead."

"Judging from your tone of voice - and from the vocal inflections present in Lt. Aramaki's responses to you - would I be incorrect in concluding that you two are romantically involved?" he asked.

"Involved?" Geordi answered, surprised. "No. I don't know if I'd call it being involved - but we are dating," he conceded.

Data frowned, taken aback by the easy response - and by the absence of the usual blush or hesitation that had always accompanied Geordi's answers to questions about his romantic relationships. "Your manner would suggest this is not an atypical state for you," he suggested.

The engineer smiled unabashedly. "Well, I'd hardly put myself in the ranks of Captain Riker - in his bachelor days," he added hastily, "but... yeah, my social life has improved considerably in the past few years," he admitted, then grew sober. "Data, when you... died, I - most of us, I think - took a long look at our lives. I won't speak for anyone else, but when I took that look at myself, I realized there were so many things I wanted for my life - things I didn't have - and that I didn't want to finish my life without finding - or at least pursuing. And, for me, one of those things was to stop living my life alone."

"And that is why you have begun dating Lt. Aramaki?" Data asked.

Geordi smiled. "Among others; amazing as it may seem, there were others before her - and I suspect there will be more after."

Data gaped at his friend. "Geordi," he whispered, awed, "you have changed." Turning to the other human, he added, "And you, Admiral? Have you changed as well? Did my death bring about a significant change in your life as well?" he asked. "Perhaps in your relationship with Dr. Crusher?" he added.

Geordi drew a sharp breath as he watched his former captain straighten sharply, bristling at the intimate question - then carefully exhaled as the man forced himself to relax.

"The loss of every friend has affected me, Data - and your loss was no different. Perhaps we can discuss it - at another time," he added, closing that topic.

Geordi cast a sideways glance at the man, startled not just by the cool tone of the man's words - but by the content as well. After all, Beverly Crusher was going to be joining them on the ship in just a few days; didn't he think that Data would want to know that one more of his friends would be coming aboard?

Then again, he thought, from Data's point of view, it hadn't been four years since he had last seen Dr. Crusher; from his perspective, it had only been a matter of hours since they had last spoken. A remarkable piece of perceptivity on the admiral's part, Geordi thought - or, more likely, he decided, just another example of Picard's infamous reticence to reveal any aspect of his private life.

If Data knew Beverly was coming aboard, he'd want to know why - and that would lead to the revelation that she and the admiral were going to be on a dig - by themselves, unaccompanied - for nearly a month - and with that would come the implications and assumptions that trips of that nature suggested - all of which left the former captain feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable, Geordi thought. No wonder he didn't want it advertised any more than had already been done.

Except, Geordi argued silently, it was already common knowledge on the ship; there had been no attempt to hide or disguise the names or identities of the archaeogical team or their separate intended sites. Of course, with this crew, it didn't mean as much as the same information would have meant to the crew of the ship Picard had captained; these people had only a passing interest into the love lives of Starfleet's senior officers - and few, if any, had any inkling about their personal histories.

So why hide it from Data? he wondered. Admittedly, Data would understand the significance of the event as well as the possible outcomes - but without emotions, the android would simply categorize the facts in his neural net and let it go without more than a passing remark. And Picard had already discussed the issue - admittedly in the loosest of terms - with his former fellow officers, and had endured their grins and smiles, he thought, confused - so why not tell Data as well? he wondered - then let go a sigh.

Because there was nothing to tell, he realized suddenly; Picard hadn't mentioned Beverly's planned arrival - because she wasn't going to arrive. Something - her duties at Starfleet Medical, work on the Pasteur, some medical emergency - something had come up, preventing her from joining them - and once again, their plans had been cancelled.

A wave of sorrow welled up in him. Time, Geordi thought; time catches up to us, changing our lives in ways we had not wanted them to change, directing us in paths that we hadn't planned to travel - and carrying us away from that which we once wanted. Ability, skill and talent had placed Picard and Beverly in a place where they could have brought their lives together - but by the time they were ready to do so, time had enhanced those same abilities, skills and talents and turned their paths once again, this time, leading them away from one another, perhaps never to merge again.

Idiots, he thought to himself; you wasted the chance you had - and you may never have that chance again. You may be my friends - but you're both such fools.

He lowered his head for a moment, grieving for what his dear friends had lost - indeed, what they had never had - and grateful for having come to the realization that if he wanted more from his life, he was going to have to go after it himself - and he had.

But, he decided, hearing a disturbance behind him, this was not the time for discussing the matter with Picard, he reminded himself, wondering if there would ever be a time for broaching so private a matter with so private a person.

He turned to face the source of the disturbance. "Sorry to disturb you, Captain," he said to the man walking toward him, the slightly rumpled uniform and bleary eyes confirming the fact that he had, indeed, roused Riker from his bed.

"S'okay, Geordi," Riker replied with a yawn, then ran a hand over his eyes, brushed back the slightly graying hair from his face, and squinted to focus at the other human in the small research bay. "You know, Admiral, that some of us need our rest; not everyone can get by on four hours a night," he said, only half teasing.

Picard nodded. "I wouldn't have asked Lt. Aramaki to wake you if I hadn't thought it important, Will," he countered, his tone slightly reproachful.

Riker nodded, yawned again, then shook his head as if to chase off the fatigue. "Of course, Admiral," he replied, too tired to take umbrage at the gentle scolding. "What is it?"

"Will Deanna be joining us?" Picard asked.

Riker looked at the man, at little surprised at the question, then nodded. "She's getting dressed," he explained. "She'll be here in a few minutes."

"Maybe we should wait," Geordi said to Picard.

"Wait for what?" Riker interrupted.

Geordi looked at Picard, then back at his captain. "We've made some progress, sir," he said.

"Progress?" Will repeated.

"On reconstructing Data's neural net." Picard said.

Will's eyes widened, ever trace of fatigue suddenly gone. "What type of progress?" he asked.

"It seems that not only has Geordi been able to recreate the necessary components for a functioning positronic neural net, Captain," Data informed him, "but that he has also been able to successfully upload the memory engrams I gave to B-4 prior to my death to that net."

Startled by the familiar - yet so long unheard - voice, Riker stared up at the android being held in the assembly frame and frowned. "Data? Data, is that really you?"

The android gave Riker a perplexed look, then glanced at Geordi and Picard before replying. "I am surprised by what appears to be an increased interest in the concepts of self-awareness and self-perception, sir. If my engrams have been transferred intact, this would be at odds with behaviors espoused and displayed during my previous tenure as Chief Operations Officer aboard the Enterprise - and indeed, with the behaviors noted during the years in which I was online, regardless of the assignment or station I was given. Such a change would suggest that the intervening years have..."

Riker looked at the other two humans and sighed. "It's Data," he sighed - then broke into an immense grin. "It's you, Data," he informed the android - then spun to face the woman who was making her way into the bay, worry and a hint of anger on her face, dressed in a robe and slippers, her disheveled black hair framing her face. "Deanna, it's..."

"Data?" she whispered in astonishment, as the thought projected itself into her mind a moment before Will could say the name.

Stunned, she turned to face the android even as his eyes focused on her - and drew in a gasp of air as he blinked.

"Will?" she whispered, "Is that really Data?" she whispered, hope coloring the word.

Will nodded.

She turned back to face the android, then stepped close to the being. "Data?" she asked once again.

"Yes, Counselor," he answered.

"You're alive," she said softly, her hand rising to touch his face.

"Yes, Counselor," he repeated, then, after a moment of searching for an appropriate remark, added, "You are crying."

Deanna raised a hand to her eyes, examined the tears, then sniffed and nodded. "Yes, I am."

"I am sorry," he said penitently. "I am cognizant that pregnancy places many stresses upon the human body, and that adequate rest is critical to your - and your child's - well-being. While I do not wish to place blame, it was the admiral's suggestion to rouse both you and the captain at this time; had I been consulted, I would have advised allowing you to remain asleep until such time as you had wakened on your own..."

Deanna turned to look at the others. "No doubt about it: he's Data," she informed them, before turning back. "Data, I'm crying because I am so very happy. I - we all - thought you were gone from us forever. Now you're back and I'm so happy - so of course I'm crying," she explained.

He frowned. "I do not believe I fully understand - but I, too am glad to be back. Except I do not remember being away," he added.

"Don't worry, Data," Geordi offered, approaching the frame. "We can bring you up to date once I get all your servos on line."

"Which will be when, Geordi?" Will asked.

The engineer shook his head. "A day, maybe two. Unlike the neural net, we know exactly how the mechanical systems functioned; I just need to bring them on line, and test them. There's additional programs that need to be installed, of course, and diagnostics - but with Data's help, things should go far faster than they have so far."

Will nodded. "Take whatever resources you need, Geordi," he ordered, then shook his head. "Four years to being him back on line - and now he may be back at ops in just a few days," he said disbelieving. "Amazing."

Geordi frowned. "That may be overstating the situation, Captain. We - the counselor, Admiral Picard, and you," he added hastily, "should map out a plan for what we need to assess for mental and physical status - as well as a plan for reintegrating him into society. Four years is a long time to be gone," he added soberly.

"Agreed," Picard said, "though I believe Mr. Data should be involved in these plans as well. It's his life - his future - that we're discussing." Especially since we have no idea what that future will be; after all, he added soberly, I don't think any of us - not even Geordi - had ever thought this day would come, he reminded himself. Now that it's actually here...

Now we know what our antecedents didn't: that Data is not just a machine, but a sentient, feeling being, whose life is his own - and whose future, like our own futures, is up to him.

"Of course, Admiral," Will replied.

"Is that acceptable to you, Mr. Data?" Picard asked the android.

The android gave a confused look to the man, but gave a nod nonetheless. "I have not yet come to terms with the fact that I have been considered dead for four years, sir; I believe I had just assumed my life would pick up from the point at which I left it," he explained.

"I know," Picard empathized. "But... it has been four years - and the world has gone on. The life you choose to lead from here on is your own."

Data considered once again, then nodded. "I see, sir," he said, then thought for a long time.

Finally, he spoke. "My life is my own?" he repeated quietly.

Picard hesitated, as if considering both Data's and his own words for the first time, and understanding the implications - then nodded slowly. "I presume so, Data; there will be questions about your change of status at your death, as well as the implications of what had happened today - but my guess is that, any obligations you had prior to your death were dissolved when you died," he said thoughtfully.

"No, sir," he objected. "I do have one remaining obligation."

Picard raised a brow. "And that would be...?"

"To resume my life with Ginger," he answered softly. "Tell me, Admiral: how is she?"

Picard glanced back at the others, searching their faces for the answer - then turned back to the android.

"Data..." he began slowly.

The android looked at the man, his face covered in trepidation. "Admiral, has something happened to her? Is she hurt? Ill? Has she not recovered?" he asked worriedly. "Sir, if she is still unwell, I must go to Senator Tiron's..."

"Data..." Picard began again, then stopped, shook his head, and tried again. "Data, she's not on Romulus."

The android stared at the human. "Not..." he started, then stopped. "Then where is she?"

Picard hesitated again - then sighed. "We don't know, Data. After she learned you had died, she left Romulus - and no one has seen or heard from her since."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The best thing you could say about an Orion, the Romulan thought to herself, it was that they knew how to keep their ships warm.

Ever since she had left Romulus, she had found herself longing for the desert heat of her family home, aching for the unyielding sun to bake out the cold of space that chilled her to the core of her bones. Even the deserts of the dozens of worlds she had visited in the past few years had never come close to matching that sun's intensity, leaving her chilled and shivering even beneath the heavy layers of her uniform.

Until now, she added, thanking the gods for making Orion a far hotter world than even her own - and for a pilot who didn't hesitate to reroute the ships waste heat back into the life support system.

Indeed, for the first time in months, she felt as though she could remove her duty jacket and relish the heat of the room - although, of course, that was quite unthinkable. A proper Romulan wouldn't give in to the needs of the body - at least not in front of an alien.

And a disgusting and filthy alien at that.

She glanced around the filthy cramped space that the trader called a bridge, the dented and tattered command chair centered behind a hodge-podge assembly of navigation and helm controls, her noise wrinkling at the stench of spoiled foodstuffs and body odor that filled the room, then looked at the seven-foot tall, dark green humanoid hovering over her - and shivered, despite the heat of the space.

No, she corrected herself, the fact that Orions kept their ships warm was the _only_ good thing you could say about them.

She affixed the tall being with a contemptuous look, spat on the floor in disgust, then sneered. "No wonder you leave the running of your planet to the women; your men are utterly incompetent. Would that your women ran your ships as well; we wouldn't be in this mess," she added angrily.

"This 'mess' as you call it," the Orion snapped back, "is entirely of your doing. You said eight passengers - which is the number for which I provisioned this ship! That you brought over thirty aboard is not my problem!"

"It will be if they starve to death!" she snarled back. "You're not going to get the balance of your fee if you bring back a cargo hold full of corpses."

The Orion laughed scornfully. "The downpayment was sufficient to cover my costs to this point; I could kill you all now - and be no worse for my efforts," he informed her coldly.

She glared back, utterly uncowed by the threat. "Your words are as empty as your brain," she replied. "Don't forget for an instant that I am a Romulan of the highest order - and should I disappear, my family will investigate that disappearance - and should I be killed, the perpetrator will be found. If it takes an entire lifetime, he will be found," she repeated, glowering at him, "and his death will be protracted, agonizing and horrifying." She narrowed her gaze at him. "And know this: to a Romulan, family is everything. If I die at your hand, my family's honor will not be satisfied until every member of your family is dead as well: mother, father, grandparents, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, children, grandchildren - no one will be spared - and their deaths will be as brutal as yours." She smiled coldly. "Just remember, the downpayment we made was generous - because I can afford to be generous. Don't doubt for a minute that those same resources to drag you and your family into the bowels of hell," she said.

The Orion flinched, his bravado shaken - but he squared his shoulders an instant later - and she felt a wash of reality come over her.

Yes, in theory her family would search out her killer – in theory. In reality, however, she had been too rebellious, to opposed to following the ways that a proper Romulan should behave to know if anyone in the family would bother to do so – if they ever realized what had happened.

Which they wouldn't, she knew equally well; space was a very, very big place - and she was very, very small. They would never find her; they would never find any of them.

But the same lack of reasoning that had put them in this predicament would spare them as well; the Orion captain had taken the bluff at face value - which only meant that he wouldn't kill them outright.

Unfortunately, that left far too many other possibilities, she knew.

"You had eight hours to reprovision your ship before we left Cardassia Prime," she reminded him. "You didn't - and now we're going to need to divert to another system to pick up the provisions we need," she directed.

"That," the Orion countered confidently, "will be unnecessary."

For an instant, terror filled the woman, her confidence in the innate cowardice of the man faltering, the possibility of her imminent murder - and that of her cargo - surfacing in her mind.

But he was a coward, she reminded herself, knowing it as surely as she knew herself; whatever his new idea, it didn't involve their deaths.

"Unnecessary? We're three weeks out of Charon - with sufficient provisions for less than a quarter of that time. Unless you've managed to steal one of Starfleet's quantum temporal drive systems and install it in this piece of shit you call a starship, there's no way to get there any faster," she reminded him. "You can't use warp drive in the Bryona system - and you can't get to Charon without skirting around Bryona first."

"To which I offer a legitimate solution: instead of bypassing Bryona, we traverse the field. It will reduce the time to Charon to mere days..."

"Or increase it to eternity!" she roared back. "You moron! The Bryona field is mined! They blew up their own gods'-cursed planets so they could mine the damned thing in the Trellian war!"

"That was a millennia ago," he countered.

"Try telling the mines that!" she countered. "They're still active - and eighty per cent of the ships that try to cross it don't make it!"

"But twenty per cent do - and I'm one of those twenty percent," he countered. "I've got a route," he added boastfully.

"So did most of the ships that blew up," she retorted.

The Orion snorted contemptuously. "They were fools! They bought maps that claimed to show the paths that cross the Bryona - but no trader who knows the route would sell it! It is far too valuable; crossing the Bryona can bring a ship to port days ahead of the competition!"

"Yeah? And where did you get your map?" she growled back.

He looked at her proudly. "It is a family treasure, handed down, generation to generation, father to son."

She raised her brow skeptically - but his demeanor was so confident, so damned cock-sure that she realized he was telling the truth.

But he wasn't telling everything, she added silently, glancing about the bridge of the ship, noting the countless panels that had been hastily patched together, the jury-rigged systems - and hearing the strain on the engines even as they carried them along at low warp.

"Then why haven't any of them used it?" she asked.

He glared at her, instantly suspicious. "How do you know they haven't?"

She gave him a derisive look. "Captain, this ship is barely holding itself together; you don't have near the resources needed to repair her. No; if you had used that map, you - and your ancestors - would have been able to bring your cargos to port ahead of the other captains - and those profits you were talking about would have been yours - and this ship would have been a marvel, rather than the piece of crap it is. No; no matter what the provenance of that map, neither you nor your family have never dared to use it, no matter how desperate you've been, because you're scared. Scared, because you know as well as I do that it might not be real."

"It is real!" he sneered.

"Then try it - but on your own dime," she added, "not on mine. This cargo is precious beyond money." She considered for a moment. "All right; we're a week out of Cardassian space - but if we're on course, there should be a half dozen ports within a week's travel; we can ration out our remaining supplies until then..." she began - then looked at the Orion, realization sinking in. "We're not on course, are we?"

He straightened haughtily. "I... made some adjustments in the ship's trajectory in order to minimize our fuel utilization," he informed her.

"Minimize..." she began - then froze. "By the gods, I paid you in advance so that this ship would be properly provisioned - including sufficient fuel to get us all the way to Charon!" she roared.

"The Cardassians have increased their fuel taxes since the war," he countered. "I was unable to completely refuel my tanks with the funds you provided."

"You should have told me!"

"You said you had no more funds with you," he reminded her, a look of unmitigated greed rising in his eyes.

Admit you have funds, she cautioned herself, and he'll kill you here and now, regardless of the consequences. Deny it - and we may stand a chance. "And I didn't!" she snapped back instantly. "But I had contacts on Cardassia - I could have made arrangements!" she snapped back.

"And that is something that _you_ should have told _me_," he replied, echoing her words of a moment before. "But since a starship captain can only act upon the knowledge he has, I did what I thought best - buy what fuel I could, and alter our course to utilize the fuel as best as possible."

"Meaning crossing the Bryona field," she answered in horror.

"It was the only way we could make Charon with the provisions and fuel I could afford - and it will place us there in five days," he said.

"If it doesn't kill us first," she answered.

He smiled cruelly. "The choice is yours, of course - but given the fact that your rations are almost gone, you and your passengers will undoubtedly be dead if we don't."

"We'll all be dead, Captain," she responded. "The rations will be gone tomorrow - and you'll starve along with us."

"On the contrary, Commander," he said with an oily smile. "My replicators can produce adequate provisions - for an Orion. Regrettably, the nutritional needs of Romulans and Cardassians are far more complex - and beyond the rudimentary programming of my system."

"Bastard," she muttered.

"Not at all," he replied. "I did not plan this situation - but rather, I have worked around the limitations you presented to me. Had you been forthcoming from the beginning regarding the number of passengers and the availability of funds, we might not have found ourselves in this situation - but you did not - and I have done the best that I can in these circumstances.

"Now, I give you the option once again: we take our chances with my map - or you and your people face certain death from slow starvation. The choice is yours."

She glared at him. "You give me no choice."

He smiled unctuously. "I'm glad you see it my way, Commander," he oozed. "Now, I have work to do - so you will excuse me," he ordered, gesturing at the lone door leading from the cramped room.

Bristling at the dismissal, she glared at him - then turned on her heel and made for the door.

It slid open to admit her, then closed again - and she felt the tension fall from her shoulders even as the weight of her burdens settled back in.

"Tek da vida me?"

She turned to the Cardassian boy - man, she reminded herself; after all this time he must be a teen-ager by now - and shook her head.

"No," she answered, slipping into the Cardassian dialect the teen spoke. "The captain says there's no more food to be had. He says he spent everything else on fuel."

"Tuk va ecarge?"

She smiled. "No, of course I don't believe him," she replied. "He's lying through his filthy teeth. Not that I didn't think he wouldn't try to steal half the money by inflating his costs - but..." She sighed, shaking her head.

The boy reached for her arm, looked into her eyes and murmured quietly.

She nodded, then patted his hand gently. "Thank you, dear - but I should have known better. Hell, I did know better - but there wasn't anything else I could do. I had enough money to buy myself a ship's captain - but not a ship, and that's the only way I could have been sure to get you all home safely.

"Instead, I had to take my best shot - and it wasn't good enough," she sighed - then looked back at the closed bridge door. "He's going to do something stupid, S'bey; he's going to try to turn a profit even beyond what I offered him - and he's probably going to kill us all in the process.

"All for money, S'bey; all for money," she sighed - then turned to her young companion.

"Enough for the self-pity," she chastened herself. "Let's get everyone together and move them to the engineering bay."

"Du dek ke?"

"It's warmer, for one thing," she explained, "and there's a replicator terminal there. The captain's quite right - we can't survive on Orion rations - but he doesn't realize that it'll take months before the deficiencies affect them. If he didn't bother to buy enough rations, the least he can do is to share his own with them."

"Sené kota, uvek ni to miket, Komiada" he said quietly.

"I know, I know," she sighed. "But if he's right we'll be on Charon in five days - and I can eat then." If I'm right, however, food is not going to be something I ever have to worry about again.

She sighed - then noticed the troubled expression on S'bey's face. Shaking her head at her own sense of dread, she managed a smile for the young man, then tousled his short black hair. "You worry about me too much. Worry about them instead," she reminded him.

As I will, she added silently. "In the meantime," she continued a moment later, "we can keep their bodies warm, their bellies filled and their minds off their hunger for a few more days."

And if the end comes in the next few hours, they'll die warm and content.

I promised you that, she told them sadly; I promised you you'd be warm and full - and safe.

But I couldn't give you that, she added wordlessly. I tried - but I wasn't good enough.

I'm sorry; I failed you.

I failed you all.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Deanna swiped angrily at the errant strand of hair that kept falling over her eyes, irritated that her previously compliant hair was - like everything else about her body - rapidly going to hell.

Her weight, her waistline, her figure - even the changes in her skin, her appetite and her moods - all those changes she could understand - but my hair, too? Is nothing on my body safe from the ravages of this baby? she sighed frustratedly as she reached for the salad bowl that had appeared in the replicator.

A hand, large and strong, reached ahead of hers, taking it before she could.

"Let me," Picard said quietly, then added, "You don't have to do this, you know. It's been a long day for us all - and I'm perfectly content to eat in my quarters. You don't have to entertain me."

Despite her frustration, Deanna smiled back at the man, touched the replicator control, then removed the loaf of bread that materialized a moment later.

"It's not 'entertaining', Admiral," she corrected him. "You're family," she reminded him, then glanced down at the growing curve of her abdomen - then glanced back at him worriedly. "Unless you've changed your mind," she added.

Picard hesitated for a moment, just as he has hesitated when Will and Deanna had first broached the topic - but now, as then, he knew there was only one answer to the question they had posed. He smiled reassuringly at the woman and shook his head. "No; never. I'm honored that you asked me to be the baby's godfather - though I have no idea where you got the notion I was qualified," he added.

She returned the smile, relieved at the answer. "Actually, we couldn't think of anyone better for the role, Admiral. You've always been a part of our family; this will only make if official."

Picard sighed petulantly. "Distant family," he clarified.

Deanna frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"If I was truly family, you'd stop calling me 'Admiral'," he pointed out. "It's Jean-Luc - please," he reminded her. "At least," he added, "when we're off duty."

Deanna blushed, then nodded. "Of course, Ad... Jean-Luc."

"Better," he said. "Now give me that," he added, gesturing at the bread. "If I'm family, then I can do my share of the work - and you can relax," he added sternly.

"Yes, Jean-Luc," she replied, managing a tired smile as she handed over the bowl, then watched, relieved, as the man took the food and arranged it on the dinner table - then pulled out a chair, and gestured for her to take it.

"The meal..." she began to protest.

"I'll get the rest of the meal," he said. "You sit down."

"But..."

"I can make it an order," he reminded her.

"You can," she countered, adding, "Admiral."

"Point taken," he replied. "Let me make it a request, then," he said more gently, pulling the chair back a touch further, his eyes imploring her to accept the offer. "Please," he added.

Deanna opened her mouth to protest - then stopped. If he was family, as she insisted, there was no need for the false pretenses - and to insist otherwise was to deny what she had just said.

And he was family, Deanna reminded herself; they were all family. It was something that had taken them all years to learn - but time, and distance - and loss - had left them all questioning that relationship, straining that knowledge of which they were all once so certain.

But now, she thought, her hand return to her abdomen, gently caressing the swell, with this child's birth - and with Data's return to them - the rifts that had separated them might begin to close - and they might, once again, return to being the family they once were.

Providing she got through this pregnancy, she added as a new pain twinged through her back. Despite her attempts at stoicism, she gave an involuntary groan - then accept the offered chair.

Smiling at his success, Picard pushed the chair in as shook sat, then confronted the woman. "What else needs to be done?" he asked.

Deanna smiled, surprised - and charmed - by the man's deference. "The rest of the meal has been programmed. If you could just bring it to the table..."

"Wouldn't you rather wait for Will to join us?" he asked.

Deanna sighed. "He's running late - as usual. The needs of a starship don't always accommodate a captain's dinner obvious, as you know," she said. "As joyful as it is for us, Data's... return... has thrown the crew for a loop, sir, and between rearranging Geordi's routine, meeting with Worf about the Security concerns, and preparing a report for Starfleet, Will's been a little busy today. He did say he would try to join us as soon as he could. Unfortunately, Junior here," she added, her hand on her belly, "hasn't learned patience; when he's hungry, he wants to be fed," she sighed.

"I understand," Picard agreed, trying to ignore the touch of loneliness that colored the woman's words.

Deanna had spent enough years as the counselor of the flagship of the fleet to understand the demands that her captain faced, he knew, and had spent enough years as Will's wife to understand the demands it placed on the individual who filled that role. But until the last few weeks, she had always been in a position to share those demands, both professionally and personally. Now, removed from her post - and thereby her physical presence on the bridge - and her responsibilities and the professional ties that created to the activities on the ship, she had almost none of that to share with Will, either as her husband or as her commanding officer - and Picard could see that the emptiness it left in her life was weighing heavily on the woman.

"Perhaps we could just start with the salad then," he suggested, "and wait until Will can join us for the rest of the meal - if that's acceptable to the both of you," he finished, his eyes glancing to Deanna's swollen abdomen for just a moment before meeting her gaze once again.

"That would be lovely," Deanna agreed. "I just need to get the dressing and the forks..." she said starting to get up - then sank back at the pointed glare from the man.

He kept the glare in place until he had turned away, not wanting Deanna to see the smile that threatened, then moved to the replicator, ordering the last few items - and took a moment to glance around the space where his former officers now lived.

It had surprised him when he had first arrived on the Enterprise, and was promptly escorted to his own former quarters - a space that, by all rights, should have belonged to the Will and Deanna now. For a moment, he had suspected they had vacated the space out of misplaced generosity or sentimentality - but the room was a little too neat, a little too clean - and a little too sterile - to have been anything but guest quarters for some time.

Had Will forsaken the space intentionally, determined to make his own mark in the world? Picard has wondered, appreciating the man's desire to make this ship his own - but the reality, he realized when he had joined the two for dinner that first night aboard, was far more basic.

His quarters were generously sized - for a single man. For a couple, however, the space would have been uncomfortably tight - and for a growing family, impossible. No wonder Will had opted for taking back his old quarters - and appropriating the adjacent quarters as well.

It would still be a tight fit for three people, he thought - but space was always at a premium on a starship - and families had made do with less since the dawn of time. He had no doubt that Will and Deanna would make do.

But there had been something more to their return to this space, Picard knew; it wasn't just that his former quarters had been too small - but there was something barren, something sterile about the space that would have transcended anyone's attempts to turn it into a home. Here, he thought, looking around him, the furnishings, the art work, the touches of casual dishevel - all lent a feeling of homeliness and warmth that his space had never possessed.

Perhaps, he thought, because this had once been Will's space, and had been imbued with his personality, that it had been so easy for him to adapt it as their new home - or perhaps, he admitted soulfully, because my quarters had never held any sort of joie de vivre.

Then, as now, it was stark, sterile, empty - a perfect room for a visitor to live in - but not a home.

No wonder Beverly wouldn't, he began - then let the thought fade away. Deanna's empathy may have been impaired by the baby's development - but she was still perspicacious, and all too aware of her former CO's melancholy of late - and seeing him feeling so ridiculously sorry for himself would only encourage her to resume her role as his personal counselor.

And, he added sharply, this was simply not the time or the place for melancholy; this should be a time for happier thoughts. After all, Data was back with them, he was about to begin a new adventure - and more to the point, he told himself, this was Deanna and Will's home - and he was a guest in their home, and should behave as such.

He turned to face the woman. "Vinaigrette," he said thoughtfully, as if that would explain his dalliance at the replicator. "I was thinking which wine to open, but with vinaigrette dressing..." He shook his head at the thought.

She smiled, seeing the pretense for what it was - and playing along. "Even if they did go together, Ad... Jean-Luc, I can't drink real alcohol while I'm pregnant - and synthehol doesn't taste right anymore. Nothing tastes right anymore," she added more softly, unhappily.

Despite her obvious distress, Picard couldn't hold back a smile. "I think that comes with being pregnant, Deanna. When Eline was expecting Batai..." he began, then stopped, looked away, and shook his head.

But before he could dismiss the memory, Deanna reached out her hand, laying it over his. Pregnancy may have effectively removed her limited telepathy - but she could still recognize embarrassment - and pain.

"Sir..." she began.

"Of course," he instantly interrupted, "that never happened."

"But it did," she protested gently.

Picard shook his head. "Only in my mind, Counselor. None of it was real; Eline, and Batai and Maribor..." His voice fell off for a moment. "They never existed. Not really. It was only in my mind."

Deanna tightened her grip over his hand. "But what occurs in our minds is reality, sir. Our perception - that is, our personal interpretations of everything we see, do, or experience, and our memories of those interpretations - is our reality. Indeed, it is the only reality we can ever have. We've talked about this before," she reminded him, "and I think we came to agree that everything we experience - even the so-called verification of others that events did or did not occur - are still only our perception of the world around us. You were there, Jean-Luc; you had a life, a family, a career - and those events were as real to you as this dinner is to me. Even though no one else experienced what you experienced, that doesn't mean that they didn't happen to you - and those events affected you, changed the man you were to the man you are."

He considered her words for a moment - then managed a smile. "You're waxing philosophic tonight, Counselor," he said lightly.

"I'm not a counselor, sir - at least not for the next few months - but today has been a day that requires philosophy - and contemplation," she replied. "Our friend, who we thought lost forever, has returned. In the light of that experience, isn't it natural that we think about the nature of our lives and our existence?"

Picard considered, then nodded. "Perhaps."

"And one of your experiences was being an expectant father," she said, guiding him back to his earlier comment.

"Hmmm?" he murmured, lost for a moment in contemplation - then shook his head, reddening slightly. "Oh, you don't want to hear about that," he said.

"But I do!" she protested.

He looked at her, surprised by her vehemence.

It was Deanna's turn to blush now, a soft rosy pink covering her cheeks at the echo of her outburst. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "It's just..." She drew a deep breath, then let it out in a rush. "Things have changed, sir. On the Enterprise D, we had families aboard. That meant that there were women who had had children recently or were pregnant on board the ship. If you were a new mother-to-be - or a father-to-be, for that matter - there was someone with whom you could talk, someone who had been through the experience recently, or was going through it at the same time. As the ship's counselor, I made sure these people were able to talk, to connect with one another and share their concerns and their experiences, to help one another. But..."

"But even with the war over," Picard continued, "Starfleet is loathe to put families back on starships."

Deanna nodded. "Which means the vast majority of people aboard are either career officers or recent cadets - and their experiences with family and children are even less than mine." She hesitated for a moment. "I would love to hear about your experiences as a father, sir - if you don't mind," she added hastily.

Picard looked at the woman for a moment, reminding himself not only of her loneliness, her isolation from the people who could be easing her worry at such an uncertain time of her life - then reminded himself that he was, indeed, one of those very people. To deny her the solace she was seeking was hardly the act of one of her superior officer - or the act of a man in whom she had entrusted a part of her unborn child's future.

"I'm not sure what I can tell you," he demurred, "but... I do remember Eline once saying..."

As the room's doors opened to admit the ship's captain, a soft laugh rose from the dining area and met Will's ears - and a faint sensation of happiness and well-being greeted his mind.

_Imzadi_, he thought at his lover, surprised and pleased by the sensation of joy that filled their quarters.

It wasn't that their quarters were usually gloomy or depressing - but Deanna's pregnancy had taken a toll on their lives that neither had anticipated. As much as they had both wanted this child, the developing fetus had left Deanna uncomfortable with a body she had grown to know so well, and the effect of those changes on her emotions and her telepathy had been more profound than either of them could have anticipated. Of course, she had done everything she could to keep Will from sensing her distress, he reminded himself - but after so many years of working together, of being lovers, of being friends, they were both all too aware of the others thoughts and emotions.

When the effects of the pregnancy had become more than she could handle professionally, Will had thought it an optimum time for them both to take a prolonged leave from the ship, to wait out the last few months together - but with his posting to the Enterprise being so relatively new, they both realized his career could be endangered by the long absence - as could his mental well being.

After all, if they were securely ensconced on a planet, it would simply be a matter of time before Lwaxanna Troi insisted on doing her motherly duty - and joining them until the baby was born.

And perhaps for a considerable time thereafter.

Perhaps permanently.

Will shuddered at the very idea - then immediately checked the reaction. It wasn't that he didn't like his mother-in-law, but...

_But she is Mother_, Deanna thought from the other room.

She was rising to her feet even as he entered the main room, moving into his arms as he reached the table, raising her face to be kissed - and smiling contentedly as he completed that task and pulled away.

_You're in a good mood tonight,_ he teased her gently, but without malice, genuinely happy for her.

_We've been having a nice visit, Will,_ she said silently, then added aloud, "I was beginning to wonder if you remembered where we lived."

"Sorry," he apologized, then turned to Picard who had also risen from the table. "My apologies, sir. I was drafting a report for Starfleet - about Data - and the time got away from me. I hope you didn't wait dinner for me," he added, noting the apparently unused place settings at the table.

"Dinner, yes," Deanna replied, "but the salad's long gone."

"Damn," Will muttered. "I've missed the salad again. Oh, well; my loss."

"Yes, I can tell you're suffering," she replied sarcastically, patting his abdomen. "You might consider missing a few meals as well, Captain, or you're going to start looking like me."

"Beautiful, you mean?" he replied, smiling down at her.

She beamed back up at him - and Picard raised a hand to his mouth, quietly clearing his throat.

"I can leave you two alone, if you'd like," he said, without a hint of facetiousness in his voice.

Deanna turned to face him, still happily enrobed in her husband's arms. "Never mind us, sir; I've just been going through so many mood swings that Will's never sure if I'm going to bite his head off when he gets in. He's learned to enjoy those rare occasions when I'm somewhat civil." She shook her head and sighed. "It wasn't this hard when I was pregnant with Ian," she added.

"A pregnancy induced by an alien life form - and one that lasted for only a few days - is not the same thing as a normal human-Betazoid pregnancy," Will reminded her.

"If there is such a thing as a normal human-Betazoid pregnancy," she answered. "Alyssa..."

"Alyssa?" Picard interrupted.

"Alyssa Ogawa," Deanna clarified.

"Of course," Picard agreed. "I just didn't realize she was aboard."

"She's been on the Excalibur, but Will brought her on as CMO after you left; he wasn't about to give Greg Matthews the post," she said adamantly.

"Dr. Matthews is still here?" he said, surprised.

Deanna nodded, sighing. "Yes, sir - and to be frank, we don't know why. He's talented enough to get almost any posting he wants - and he's been offered half a dozen other ships. But he's turned them all down."

Picard smiled. "That's understandable; this is the flagship of the fleet, after all."

"Yes, but he's not the CMO," Will volunteered, "and I've made it clear to him he never will be. Not on my ship."

"But still he stays," Deanna continued, "even when he's gotten better offers - even from Starfleet Medical. I don't understand it," she said - then sighed, "but then, I've never been able to understand him.

"But Alyssa is my - and the baby's - doctor," she continued, "and she assures me the baby is fine. Still, there have been so few half-human, half-Betazoid women having children by fully human husbands that she's guessing at whether the changes I'm experiencing are normal or not - so every twinge, every ache, every mood swing starts me worrying," she admitted, "and I can't imagine that that's healthy for me or for the baby."

Picard considered for a moment. "Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but perhaps it was a mistake for you to relinquish your post so early, Deanna."

Breaking free of Will's arms, she nodded, agreeing, understanding his remark - then shook her head. "If I could have stayed on, I would have - but when I realized that my empathic abilities were being affected by the changes in my body, I couldn't be certain that my patient's treatment wasn't being compromised. Morally and ethically, I had no choice but to step down. I was hoping to work on some research I'd been putting off, but I can't seem to keep my mind focused."

"Then focus on me for a moment," Will said. "I'm starving!"

Deanna rolled her eyes, then pulled free from his arms, and, taking one hand in hers, led him back to the dining table.

A moment later, three bowls had been arranged on the table - and Will stared down at the contents. "Vegetable stew?" he asked skeptically. "I thought we were having salmon."

"We were - but Jean-Luc mentioned having developed this recipe when his wife was pregnant, and he thought I might enjoy it."

"His wife?" Will interrupted, astounded and confused.

"On Kataan," Deanna reminded him. "The probe?" she added. "Remember?"

"Oh. Right. Your wife," Will replied, giving the man a dubious look.

"Will, we might not have experienced..." Deanna began to protest - but Picard silenced her with an upraised hand.

"It's all right, Deanna," he said quietly. "Let it suffice to say that, real or not, I was left with a new appreciation of some aspects of life - and a recipe for vegetable stew," he added with a forced smile.

Will stared at the bowl a moment longer, then picked up a spoon, dipped it into the bowl and tentatively raised it to his mouth - and his eyes widened in surprise. "It's good," he said in amazement.

"It's very good," Deanna echoed a moment later.

Picard smiled. "I'm glad you enjoy it. It's not quite the same as it was on Kataan - the vegetables are different - but I've continued to modify the recipes over the years, and I think this is reasonably close to the original."

"It's quite delicious, sir - and I think Junior's going to approve as well," she said contentedly. "It's been some time since he's let me have a full night's sleep - but he already seems to be quieting down for the evening."

Picard raised a brow. " 'He'? Then you're certain it's a boy?"

"No. Alyssa knows, of course," Will said, "but we've asked her to keep it to herself until the baby's born."

"So no decision about a name yet?" Picard pressed.

"Hoping to see a namesake, sir?" Will teased.

Picard grimaced. "Hardly, Will. One Jean-Luc Picard in this universe is more than enough."

"We're still considering options - but we have four months left to think about it," Deanna added. "Well, at least that will give me something to do," she sighed.

"Would that I were so lucky," Will replied. "Data's... resurrection... is going to create more issues than his death did - and I'm going to be at the forefront of finding a resolution to each and every one of those issues."

"What kind of issues, Will?" Deanna asked, curious.

"First and foremost: Is this Data our Data?" he asked.

"Of course he's our Data," she replied.

"No," Picard volunteered. "Not 'of course'. There is no precedence for something like this - and, depending on what Data wants to do with this new life of his, every step of the way is going to mean inquiries, investigations - and possibly court decisions. Even establishing his legal identity might be impossible; we'd need to prove that the being who downloaded his memory into B-4's neural nets four years ago is the same being who Geordi brought on line this morning - and that may mean examining every event that B-4 has recorded in his memory over that same time span to insure that the memories Data has recovered are the same as those he put into storage. That may not be something that can be proven - at least not to Starfleet's satisfaction," he explained grimly.

"Starfleet's already saying the same thing, sir," Will agreed. "If Data requests reinstatement, they're going to demand solid evidence that he is who he was - and even then, they may decide that he is that he is a different being than the man with whom we served. We may even have to take him through the entire process of determining whether he is a being or a piece of property.."

"Property?" Deanna exclaimed, outraged. "But that was decided years ago!"

"For our Data, yes - but the circumstances are different this time. Last time, the Data who argued that he had the rights and privileges of a sentient being was a creature that Starfleet had found - but one who was intact, albeit turned off. This time, however, the Data who came on line today was created by a Starfleet officer, on a Starfleet vessel. The fact that one functional android could be built suggests that more could be as well - and this time, it might serve Starfleet's needs better to determine that they are nothing more than machines - disposable machines at that. Routinely download the memories so that if a machine is destroyed you can simply upload the old memory into a new machine and eliminate any training times - or upload the same memory into a dozen versions of the same machine and create as many machines as you need or want for any task."

"That's... appalling!" Deanna protested, outraged.

"Will may be overstating the case; the logistics - and the relative cost - of creating an android might prohibit mass production - but a determination that this Data is a machine could create issues in other ways," Picard said. "If Data were to be determined to be nothing more than a machine, property of Starfleet, then his memories are also the property of Starfleet, to do with as they will."

Deanna and Will studied the man for a moment, then looked at each other in confusion. "I don't understand," Will said at last.

"No?" he answered. "Then think; who is the one person who could prove that Vice Admiral Thaddeus Czymszczak violated Federation law by sending Starfleet personnel to Cardassia Prime during the war without authorization - then betrayed their presence to the Obsidian Order so he could never be connected to their actions?"

"Andile," Deanna replied.

"No, Dee's dead," Will countered harshly. "Admiral Czymszczak made sure of that."

"Will..." she began to protest.

"Deanna, Andile - our Dee, our Biji - died in that accident four years ago," he said sternly. "That we know she survived and went to Romulus with Ambassador Tiron is something we have to pretend never happened; for us to act as though anything else happened would endanger her - and us," he added, meeting her eyes, then lowering gaze to the curve of her belly and the child who grew within her. "For everyone's sake, Dee died - and for all we know," he added softly, "she really is gone."

Picard fell silent - then nodded in agreement. "Will's right, Deanna; we haven't heard anything from her or about her in years. We have to assume that our Dee is gone. And for Data's sake - and his safety - we have to hope that Czymszczak can prove that Data - our Data - is as well."

"But why would the Admiral worry about Data? He doesn't have any solid evidence about what happened," Deanna protested.

"Czymszczak doesn't know that," Picard pointed out, "but he knew Dee and Data were lovers - and he would have to assume - and quite rightly - that Dee told Data everything that had happened. To protect himself, he would do everything he could to make sure Data never has the chance to make the knowledge public - even if that meant having a JAG officer proclaim Data nothing more than a machine - and wiping his memory as a result.

"Fortunately, it won't come to that. Data is his own man," he added a moment later.

Deanna managed a smile despite her anger. "Now who is waxing philosophic, sir?" she asked.

Picard shook his head. "I'm not being philosophic, Deanna; I'm being literal. Data is his own person, in every sense of the word. Starfleet cannot determine that he is their property, because no Starfleet resources were invested in his creation."

The two stared at the man for a moment. "But the materials..."

"Were purchased through a privately held trust," Picard said firmly. "No Starfleet funds were ever used."

"But Geordi's time..." Deanna tried.

"Geordi never worked on Data during his scheduled duty shifts, Dee," Will answered. "He was meticulous about it, even logging his time in and time out in the computer. He said that he didn't want anyone to accuse him of a conflict of interest..." he began, then looked at Picard.

"Your idea, sir?" he asked.

Picard nodded. "When Geordi first approached me about the possibility of recreating Data, I made sure he understood that this very issue might arise."

"Then... you funded the work as well?" Deanna asked, astounded.

Smiling, Picard shook his head. "We're talking millions of credits, Counselor. It would take a venture capitalist of remarkable investment acumen to fund such a project."

"Then who?" she pressed.

"I was not using hyperbole when I said Data was his own man; he funded his own resurrection - although he doesn't know it," he added.

Will stared at the man, perplexed.

Picard hesitated for a moment, a look of sorrow and loss crossing his face, then began to explain. "Unbeknownst to any of us, before Lt. Andile... died, she made a will - and specified Data as her beneficiary. And as her death was in an accident, and in the line of duty, the death benefit was rather sizeable." He managed a smile. "Remember she had been in Starfleet for almost a century, and the accumulated fund was rather substantial. Data, in turn, invested that money in a number of lucrative venture capitals."

"For when he and Dee finally got together again?" Deanna asked.

Picard nodded. "Whatever future they had, they couldn't rely upon being able to safely reside in the Federation..."

"Czymszczak's may be an insidious son of a bitch," Will interrupted, "but even he can't reach out from the dead - and I thought Dee wasn't coming back until after that."

"He wouldn't have to, Will," Deanna gentled her husband. "Thaddeus Czymszczak is determined to go down in the history books as the hero of the century - and there are going to be those who believe it. And history is filled with fanatics who have assassinated those who threaten their ideals," she reminded them both. "Even Czymszczak's death might not grant Dee safe haven in the Federation."

"Data's thinking was along the same line," Picard agreed. "Short of letting the truth become known, there was no way that the reputation Czymszczak built for himself would ever be questioned - and letting the truth be known could endanger the fragile truce we have with the Cardassians and the Romulans," he reminded them with a sigh.

A fragile truce indeed, he repeated silently. The Reman rebellion had nearly resulted in a Romulan civil war; the only thing that had kept the Romulan population from turning to open battle amongst themselves had been the alliance that had been crafted in the months that had proceeded the uprising.

That, he thought, and the fact that this ship and her crew had been willing to sacrifice themselves to stop the rebels. That had placed Starfleet in high standing with the Romulans - not enough to completely overcome the innate distrust they had of the Federation, but enough to allow them to consider the treaty.

Still, the agreement had never been ratified - and the Romulans' distrust toward the Federation was growing with every passing month. It was just a matter of time, now - and if the truth about Czymszczak and his machinations on Cardassia were ever made public, that time would come all the sooner.

He sighed.

"Sir?" Deanna said quietly.

It took a moment for the voice to penetrate his thoughts - then he turned to her and gave a wan smile. There were, he thought, some things a mother-to-be shouldn't be worried about - and a war pending with the Romulans was one of them - especially when it meant that Will would likely be on the front lines if... no, when... it broke out.

"Forgive me; too many years and too many thoughts," he said. "But," he added, focusing his attention on the topic at hand - and drawing her thoughts away from his worries, "Data made arrangements to ensure that his future with Andile would be ensured. When we found B-4, Data set up a trust to ensure his future as well - and made me the trustee."

"And when Data died, and Geordi started up this idea of his to recreate Data..." Will interjected.

"And I suggested that it be solely funded through Data's trust," Picard concluded. "Even if Geordi didn't succeed, I believed there would be enough advances that could benefit B-4 to make it a justifiable use of those funds - and if he managed to recreate Data, it would ensure that there would never be any question of Data belonging to anyone - except himself; his life is his own," Picard reminded them. "The question now is: what is he going to do with that life?"

"Not rejoin Starfleet," Will decided.

"I think that choice would be ill-advised, even permitting that Starfleet would consider it - but in the end, it has to be Data's decision," Picard said. "But it does need to be a decision that's well thought out and considered; unlike the first time he was brought on line, he has amassed a wealth of knowledge and emotions that will affect his choices. Indeed, Will," he added, looking at the ship's captain, "I think that it might be an opportune time for someone well versed in human and android psychology to spend some time with him, helping him to consider his options as well as the routes of personal development available to him - a task, Counselor," he added, turning to Deanna, "that might suit you well."

"And one where my empathy, or my lack thereof, is irrelevant," she added, her eyes brightening at the thought. "All he'll need is what he's had from me in the past - my knowledge, experience and honesty in helping him decide what he's going to do now." She considered for a long moment, then turned to Picard.

"But speaking of honesty, sir, don't you think you need to be honest with him as well?" she asked. "He needs to know the truth - all of it - before he makes any decisions."

Startled, he looked at her. "I beg your pardon? Be honest with him about what?"

Deanna gave him a disapproving stare. "About Andile, sir. About the fact that you've seen her; about the fact that she's alive."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The Cardassian guard watched as the transport emptied, disgorging its ragged and dirty passengers into the dingy foyer that led to terminal's immigration hall, where, he thought, they would all be lined up and shot.

He chuckled to himself, amused at the idea of seeing this filthy bunch so readily disposed of - then sobered, unhappily, knowing that their fate would be something far more prosaic. Death by slow financial loss, he decided, watching the scruffy lot shuffle down the hall - a drawn-out and humiliating end - but one these people probably deserved.

The smarter - and he used that term loosely, he reminded himself, knowing the relatively low intellect of humans for what it truly was - the smarter of their people had arrived months before, in the days and months after the treaty had first been received, anxious to capitalize on the temporary truce that the politicians had announced, ready to fill the needs of the war-weary population - and equally eager to profit on the disposal of the Cardassian merchants' goods to the balance of the Federation's populace. These stragglers had undoubtedly had the same idea - but the time needed to raise the funds to purchase transport had put them months behind the others, the prime opportunities lost to those early arrivals, he thought, then chuckled once again; those prime opportunities included the chance to make contacts with the local authorities - and secure their cooperation.

He laughed again; if these wretched people thought the fare here expensive, wait until they learned how high the bribes would have to be before the authorities would grant them business licenses - and all only to learn that the best business opportunities were long gone.

Thank the gods that the transport companies who did business on Cardassia were required to charge their passengers for passage both ways, he added; the last thing he wanted were more of these... humans... abandoned and wandering about on the planet.

He wrinkled his nose as one of the human males passed, more out of disdain than at the smell; no being, regardless of their species, smelled very good after two weeks on a transport - but still he found these being repulsive. Their skin was too smooth, too damp - and their hair! he added with a silent groan! It grew all over their bodies - except where it should he added, staring at one of the men, his thinning hair obvious beneath the worn cap that covered the top of his head, while a grey and grizzled beard bristled over the lower half of his face.

Appalling, the guard thought, repulsed.

And as if that weren't bad enough, they had no color, their skin blanched and pale, and growing paler with every year, he added, studying the aged specimens moving through the room; white, damp, hairless, he thought, like a krellworm one found in the dank recesses of cave.

And like a krellworm, these creatures had no better place than beneath his heel, being crushed, then scraped off and forgotten.

He smiled to himself, envisioning that end for these wretched humans, watching as the last few made their way through the door into the immigration hall.

Most milled about the place, clutching to the small bags that contained the only possessions they were allowed to bring with them, as lost here as they must have been on their homeworlds - but here and there, a few Cardassian citizens who had been waiting made their way through the crowd, searching out contacts, leading them toward those custom agents who could be _persuaded_ to make the émigrés' passage through the bureaucracy swift and relatively painless, the only hurt being felt in the pocketbooks of their would-be hosts.

For a long moment he studied the select few that were being met, wondering what merchandise, attribute or talent these individuals possessed that would make them worth the cost of the bribes: illicit drugs, slaves, weapons, technology? Unlikely, he decided; these people looked as though they had ever been more than what they were now. More likely they had deliberately misrepresented themselves as being something more than they truly were in order to secure their passage through customs - and would worry about the consequences only if they were found out.

More likely 'when' than 'if', the guard thought; these humans were born without luck - and that was not going to change on Cardassia. Vagrancy was not a crime that was met with gently on this planet, he told them silently.

As he watched, an elderly Cardassian woman stepped forward, meeting the man he had noted before wearing the faded cap, then spoke a few low words. The man nodded, then allowed the woman to guide him through the gates that led to the cubicles where the humans would be interrogated, searched - then, poorer and humiliated, finally released onto Cardassia Prime - and to their individual fates.

Watching the last few shuffle through the immigration hall door, he closed it behind them, and turned to await the next transport.

The Cardassian woman led the man to one of the cubicles - but, had the guard still been watching, he would have noted that no money crossed hands. Instead, the immigration agent offered the woman a low bow, made a quick notation in the computer terminal - then waved the two through the exit door.

For several minutes they walked in silence until, at long last, she led him out of the building and into the dry, hot air of Cardassia Prime's capital city.

Despite the heat and lack of humidity, he breathed in a long draught of the fresh air, rejuvenating and invigorating after more than two weeks of breathing the stale odors of the cramped transport - then turned to face the woman, who had stopped near the busy roadway that ran by the terminal.

"Can we talk here?" he asked, his voice low, controlled.

She nodded. "Here, yes; I've arranged for a transport to meet you here. But even so, we must be brief; if we are seen talking too long, it might arouse suspicion. Even now, a human and a Cardassian speaking in public for too long will draw unwanted attention. "

He nodded. "I understand." He glanced about, as if searching for one of the potential eavesdroppers - but with so many Cardassians milling about, he had no idea who might - or might not be - spying upon them - then decided to risk speaking anyway.

"It is good to see you again, Tar Zumell," Jean-Luc Picard said to the elderly Cardassian woman.

She smiled up at him, noting that time and pain had taken the same toll of him that it had of her. "I am glad to see you as well. I only wish that it had been under different circumstances." She glanced about, as if looking for the car that was to take them, surreptitiously checking the crowd in front of the transport terminal at the same time - then, satisfied, looked back at him. "Thank you for coming," she said softly. "I am sorry that I had to ask this of you - but I had no choice."

He nodded again. "I know." He hesitated a moment, as if dreading the question he had to ask - then forced himself to do so. "How is she? Is she...?"

"Alive?" Zumell asked, then nodded. "Yes - but I do not know if she is well." She hesitated for a moment. "I have done what I can to protect her, old friend, but to call in too many favors for anyone would have aroused suspicion. I do not worry for myself, you understand..."

Picard silenced her with a shake of his head. "You did the right thing, Tar; the last thing any of us want is for her to be recognized - and she would not have wanted you to imperil yourself for her sake. I only wish I could have come more quickly - but a Starfleet vessel would have aroused as much suspicion as your entreaties would have. Unfortunately, that only left the option of booking space on a third-rate transport."

Zumell looked up, studying the worn, long-unshaven face, seeing the fatigue from the long trip not only in his expression, but in his very demeanor, and nodded. "It was for the best. Having known you as I did, I was concerned that you would not be able to disguise your years in Starfleet - and for a moment, I thought I might have been right," she said worriedly. "When you were walking through the terminal, I saw the guard watching you - but then he turned away. I suppose he saw only what he expected to see; if he was searching for a Starfleet officer, he might well have seen you - but seeing only third class émigrés, he saw only that." She smiled. "Had I not known you were on that ship, I would not have recognized you; you look no different from any of the others that left that transport - and smell no different," she added, wrinkling her nose.

Picard's face matched Zumell's expression. "My apologies, Tar; there were no sonic showers on the transport - and water was carefully rationed. After we've got her..."

"There will be no time for reunions, old friend," she interrupted. "You must get her and leave as soon as possible - before there is any chance of her being recognized. I secured transport for the both of you away from here tomorrow morning - and you must be sure she is on it."

"Then you're sure we can get her?"

She nodded. "There is a substantial bribe to be proffered - but I have no doubt you can secure her release. You have the money?" she added.

"As you directed," Picard replied. "I've secured a line of credit through the most reputable bank in the capital. Whatever amount they want, I can arrange it."

"Good," she answered. "Had this matter gone to trial, there would have been a fine as well..."

He gaped at her astounded - then quickly closed his mouth, realizing that he was drawing stars from some of the passers-by. "Then she hasn't been tried yet?" he said.

"No - and that is to her advantage," Zumell replied.

Picard gave her a questioning look.

Zumell gave a tired and resigned sigh, her shoulders sagging with the weight of her age and her worries. "Her crime - the accusation made against her," she amended, "is not uncommon here - but the sensibilities of the Cardassian public are such that it would be seen as... an abomination. A public trial would have aroused anger against the Federation that could affect the vote on the treaty - and in our current state, we cannot afford to have the treaty fail. Nonetheless, there are those who believe her offense demands a public trial - and public retribution."

Picard considered the elderly teacher's words for a moment. "With what crime was she charged, Tar?"

Zumell looked up at him, embarrassment and shame covering her face. "Prostitution," she managed at last.

"Prostitution?!" Picard repeated, stunned. "Are you certain?"

"That was the charge," she replied, then hastily added, "though I suspect that was not the case. She was seen assaulting a Cardassian man in an alleyway; the police were alerted and broke up the fight - and arrested her. Apparently the other man said she had offered herself to him - but when he reached for the money, she attempted to rob him."

"They wouldn't believe her version of the events?" he pressed.

Zumell looked up the human. "She didn't offer them an explanation; in fact she hasn't said anything since the fight. No explanations, no attempt to clarify the matter - nothing. Not during the arrest or after. If the man hadn't insisted that she had offered herself to him, the police might have taken her for a mute."

"I take it then that the police didn't investigate the matter."

Zumell shook her head. "No. Not when it was a case of a Cardassian accusing a human. I don't think they wanted to bother - not for a human," she sighed. "We may need the treaty, but that does not mean we want your peoples on our world. The treaty is too new - and the old hurts too deep. Perhaps in time, those wounds may heal - but now?" She shook her head. "No. We'll accept those we must for political and financial expediency - but for the rest, any excuse to deport them is a welcome one - and being a criminal - even if only an accused criminal - is an excellent reason to deport someone."

"Then why didn't they deport her?" he asked.

Zumell gave a tired shake of her head. "Finances, my friend - the same reason we tolerate the presence of so many aliens on our world - the reason we tolerate the treaty. We haven't the resources to transport her to another world - and even if we did, we have no proof of her embarkation point."

"But... that would be in her records, wouldn't it?" he replied, remember the elaborate procedures he had had to follow in order to be allowed transport to Cardassia. "Immigration records, secured return transport...?"

"That is the regulation - but nonetheless, she had no return ticket on file - for that matter, no file," Zumell added.

Picard shook his head disbelievingly. "No file? How is that possible?" he asked.

"Officially, it was lost."

"Lost?" he echoed, still skeptical.

"That is what must have happened, old friend, unlikely as it may seem," she insisted adamantly. "You see, if it wasn't lost, that would mean that she somehow circumvented Cardassian security protocols in order to make planetfall - and were that possibility made public, the repercussions would not only eliminate any chance of the treaty passing, but it would destabilize the existing government as well." She studied him for a moment. "We Cardassians are willing to broach the possibility of an alliance with the Federation - but only if we are first certain of our integral safety. Threaten that - and everything collapses. We can't risk that - and therefore, her records must be lost."

He nodded, understanding - and wondering - then turned his attention back to Zumell.

"The problem was that without immigration documents indicating her place of origination, we couldn't send her away," she explained. "Under the terms of the truce, we can force a planet to take back one of its own - but only if we can show that she came from that world." She managed a caustic look. "In that, friend, you are no different than us."

Picard drew a long breath, understanding. As desperately as the Cardassians might want to be rid of her, no other world, not even a Federation world, would be willing to accept a known criminal - at least not from Cardassia. Prejudice, he thought, was a sword that cut both ways.

Unfortunately, it cut the innocent as well.

"And so she's been imprisoned for..."

"Five weeks," Zumell answered quietly. "Almost six."

He nodded soberly. "How did you come to know about this?"

"Providentially, old friend," Zumell answered, "through sheer chance. The child of one of my former students is studying xenopsychology - our first steps into understanding the psychological makeup of or potential allies. Unfortunately, with so few available subjects, the courts have decided that prisoners – both the accused and the convicted - had no right to refuse examination, and would be made available to the students. I was dining with my former student, and he mentioned that his child had examined a human female - and found her to be severely mentally impaired. Knowing I had been involved with humans during the treaty, he asked my assistance in trying to identify her and in securing her transport off world - presumably so she might be treated - but more likely so that her illness could not infect us.

"I agreed to help. I went to see this person - and realized who she was."

Picard nodded slowly.

"I am so sorry that I had to contact you," she continued, "but to bring Tiron - a Romulan - into this would have raised more questions than we could afford to have answered. You are human, at least; you can take her away from here with a minimum of questions."

"I understand," he repeated.

Zumell fell silent for a moment, staring at the ground - then looked up at him, grief and worry plain on her face. "My friend... You must prepare yourself. When I saw her..." She hesitated, then shook her head. "She did not recognize me," she said quietly. "She did not know who I was. I who held her as she cried out the grief and hurt of a thousand wounds - she did not know who I was."

Picard stiffened, dread filling him, then forced himself to remain calm. "Do not assume the worst, Tar; even in dire straits, she would know better than to endanger you..."

"No," she countered flatly. "It was not pretense; there was no life in her eyes, no recognition... no intelligence." She hesitated again, then drew herself upright, ready to face him, ready to accept whatever blame she was due for the crimes of her people. "My friend..." she started, then stopped, no longer certain that she was entitled to the honor of that name, "Jean-Luc, you must know this: she was accused of prostitution; given the charge, the jailors, the guards... they would have had no compunctions about using her as they wished."

Picard drew in a sharp breath, knives of guilt stabbing at his soul.

I should have gotten here faster; I should have taken a Starfleet vessel, I should have...

I should have done so many things, he reminded himself - this time, and a thousand times before.

But this time, like so many others, there had been no choice, no other option, lest a thousand others pay a price as well, he told himself.

So we pay it instead.

He faced Zumell. "Don't blame yourself, Tar. You've done everything you could - more than I could have asked. I'll take care of her from here," he said insistently, as much to reassure himself as to reassure her. "I'll take care of her."

Zumell sighed, relieved as much by the lifting of the emotional burden as from his reassurance. "Thank you; thank you, my friend," she said, then glanced at the oncoming line of ground vehicles. "The car I secured from you is approaching. I must take my leave of you now. I am sorry I cannot go further," she apologized.

"You've done more than anyone could have asked," he assured her - then allowed himself a small smile. "I must say, Tar, that for a person who could barely speak Standard when we first met, your language skills have improved - quite remarkably," he added. Far more remarkably than the two and a half years since they first met would allow, he added, even for a teacher.

She turned emerald once again, then managed a shy smile. "One does not reveal all the weapons in one's arsenal before the battle begins. Seeing how you and your people responded when confronted with an ignorant old woman allowed me to learn more about you than all the preparation and education my people could provide."

"I would accuse you of being deceitful, Tar - had the situation not been as dire," he replied.

"It was deceitful, Captain," she replied, "but I'll not apologize; not when it was so vital for my people - and yours."

"I understand," he said, then fell silent as the vehicle approached them, slowed, and stopped.

The driver emerged from the car an instant later, moved quickly to the passengers and gestured for Picard to enter the vehicle. Before the drive could shut the door, though, Picard extended a hand, stopping him, then looked up at his friend. "Thank you for what you've done."

"No thanks are necessary," she answered. "I... I know of your loss," she added softly. "I would not see you - or her - hurt again. Not when I could do something, even if it was so little," she said, then stepped back, gestured to the driver - and the door swung shut.

The noise of the terminal and the road closed off from him, Picard sat back in the vehicle, then watched as the driver swiftly returned to his place and moved the vehicle back in traffic. He turned to look back at the old woman - but she had already disappeared into the swell of people, lost to his sight - and to the inspection of those around her.

He turned back, his mind focusing now on the work before him, reviewing his plan - and reminding himself that no matter how carefully he had prepared it, he had to be ready to change it at a moment's notice.

Fifteen minutes later, he felt the car slow, then settle to the ground. Looking out the window, he saw a building, massive, drab, grey, featureless, noteworthy for nothing - except for its nothingness - and felt a shudder run through his body.

Is this what the prison on Celtris III had looked like? he wondered - the shook his head, chasing away the idea as foolish. Starfleet would have detected the presence of a building on the surface of Celtris III - and they would have seen the trap for what it was. No, this was a prison - and there was no prison, per se, on that world, on the small room where he had been held, tortured...

No, he told himself firmly, pushing away the memory, refusing to allow himself to get caught in that psychological trap; these were different circumstances; he had been caught and held as a spy; she was being held as a felon - a suspected felon, at that. This was a prison - and for her, there were laws, courts, and a judicial system that he could use in order to free her.

He stepped out of the vehicle, his eyes locked on the front door of the building, then stopped as he heard the driver call to him.

"I am to wait for you," the Cardassian man said.

"I don't know how long this will take," Picard protested.

"I am to wait for you," the man repeated firmly.

Picard appraised the Cardassian, seeing in his eyes an obvious dislike of his human passenger and his task - but also seeing the firm determination to carry out his assignment.

Another of Tar Zumell's students - or the child of one, he amended - he realized, then silently offered the old woman thanks once again.

Picard nodded, then turned to the building, making his way to front door and the Cardassian guarding the passage.

The guard listened as Picard explained his task, then examined the proffered documents. Touching a button on the door's exterior, he relayed the message, nodded as a sharp reply answered, then barked an equally rapid stream of directions at Picard. A moment later, the heavy doors opened, and Picard entered the building.

There was a sameness about every institution on every world he decided as he entered the building; the same staleness of the air, the same wash of dull, uninspiring color, the same aging and wear of floors and furniture, the same medicinal scent of disinfectants, the same undertone of body odor and waste - and the same resentful anger in the eyes of the people who worked in those institutions, he added, as he watched a tall Cardassian bear down on him, his movements quick, hurried.

"Papers," the man snapped as he drew close, his hand extended as if expecting immediate compliance.

For an instant, Picard bristled at the order - then hastily checked the emotion, once again drawing out the documents from his bag and handing them to the man.

"Efram Aldohern?" the man said, though it was more a statement than a question.

Picard nodded, allowing himself the faintest sigh of relief at the apparent acceptance of the documents. They were forgeries, of course; Jean-Luc Picard, Starfleet Admiral, could hardly be seen on Cardassia - but they were perfect forgeries, drafted by the same people who were responsible for the creation of the authentic items - another favor called in during those first desperate hours. Whether the other set, however, would pass the same inspection was another matter; those had come from another source, from someone who wouldn't wonder or care why he was creating papers for a woman long believed to be dead.

The official nodded, then thrust out his hand. "And you have papers for the felon?" he barked.

Picard reached into bag once again, drawing out the second set and handing them over, then watched as the man perused them.

"Efrat Aldohern," he muttered. "Granddaughter?" the man pressed.

"No," Picard replied, his voice subdued, a hint of shame and embarrassment in his tone. "Distant relative. I didn't even know she was off-world," he added.

"What world?" the Cardassian said.

"Evakto," Picard replied, confirming what his documents professed, confirming what the transport records would show - and he added silently, confirming what the planet's records would now show, should the official bother to confirm - another favor from another friend.

"Farmers," the man sneered.

Picard nodded as humbly as possible, refusing to take the bait. If the official wanted to seem him as a coward and a weakling, so be it; this was no place or time for pride - especially in a life that wasn't his. "Yes."

The official nodded again. "Come with me," he said, then turned, moving swiftly, forcing Picard to half run to keep up with the taller man's long steps.

The man led Picard to a lift which took them down into the depths of the building, then through a half dozen corridors and security points before finally stopping at the front of a dank cell. "That her?" he snapped.

Picard peered into the room, then looked at the Cardassian. "I can't see anything," he said.

The official jerked his had back, gesturing with the point of his chin. "There. In the corner."

Picard stared into the room again - then finally saw a figure, tiny, huddled and shivering in the far corner, hiding behind the bare cot that served as the room's only furniture - and gave a soft gasp.

"Where are her clothes?" he asked, sickened.

The official glared at him. "We had her in one of the upper cells, but she wouldn't use the toilet," he sneered back, clearly disgusted by the human's hygiene. "She fouled her clothes, she fouled herself - at first we let her live in her own messes - but the smell was more than we could tolerate. We moved her down here, where the guards could hose down the room every day - but she wouldn't bathe, so we took her clothes so they could hose her down as well."

"You could have given her a blanket," he said as he watched the figure shiver in the shill, damp air.

"She would have fouled it as well," he snapped back. "We have better things to do than wash a convict's laundry. So, is she yours?" he pressed.

Picard peered into the room again, then shook his head. "I can't tell. May I...?" he said, gesturing at the force field that secured the entry.

The official nodded at one of the guards, then the soft hum of the field fell silent. Picard looked at the Cardassian, as though he was unfamiliar with the technology, then, at the man's impatient gesture, stepped into the space - and stopped.

_Dee?_ he thought at the figure, barely able to recognize her for the dirt and filth that was caked on her face and in her hair.

The eyes, dull and unknowing, stared back at him.

He stepped closer, closing the distance slowly, then squatted down close to the figure. It had been two years, he thought - but time wouldn't have changed her.

Or would it? he wondered. Her hair would have grown longer, the tritanium frame of her bones would have finally been overlayed with bone matrix, filling out the harsh planes and angles of her face and body - but some things would never change. Lowering his eyes to her bare chest, he saw the faint trace of a scar running the midline of her ribcage. He raised his fingers to the side of her throat - and felt the same trill of blood rushing through her arteries that he felt in his own.

_Dee,_ he repeated, certainly this time. _It's me; it's Jean-Luc,_ he assured her wordlessly.

The eyes stared back at him, unrecognizing.

He reached out to push a mat of the thick black hair out of the woman's eyes - but she pulled back at the motion, shrieking in pure terror.

Stunned, stricken by her reaction, Picard turned on the official, unable to hide his fury at the man. "What have you done to her?" he hissed angrily.

The man's eyes widened in shock - then narrowed in pure revulsion. "Nothing! You think we would... with a _thing_ like that?" he roared. "You humans are disgusting! If she is yours, take her and go. If she isn't... take her anyway!" he raged. "Get her out of here before she infects any of my men!"

Picard gaped at the man, about to protest - the fine, the bribes - then realized the man was speaking from the depths of his soul; he was, Picard realized, truly terrified.

Did the Cardassians really believe that mental illness was contagious? he wondered - or had Dee managed to 'push' this irrational fear onto her captors before she lost control of her own mind?

Either way, he knew he had to take advantage of the situation before the man had a chance to rethink it, and began to strip off the jacket he wore.

"I need something to cover her; some clothes, a blanket," he said, pulling the jacket around the woman, ignoring her cries and protests as he struggled to cover her.

A moment later a blanket, rough and stinking was thrown at him; ignoring the smell and the woman's protests, he wrapped it around her, then swept her up in his arms and turned to the doorway - and stopped.

There, facing the entrance were a pair of crossed hand axes - probably some archaic ornamentation, he thought, placed in the hallways of these prisons since a time when they were actually used in the defense of the land.

But in one of the prisons, in one of these cells, someone had used them far more recently.

No wonder she had lost her mind, he thought, facing those weapons day after day.

He tightened his grip on the woman, pulling her head to her shoulder, blinding her to the sight, then looked at the Cardassian official. "Is there anything you need me to..."

"Just get that out of here!" the man roared - then stepped forward, jammed the documents into Picard's bag, and gave him a rough shove toward the doorway.

As he moved toward the doors, the guards peeled away, opening each set of doors, speeding their way out; even the lift seemed anxious to see them depart, arriving just as they reached the doorway, hurrying them, uninterrupted, back to the main floor.

Hastening through the main door, Picard hurried outside, then raced toward the waiting vehicle.

The driver, seeing the man approaching moved to open the door for him, then stared, appalled, at the woman who now lay still in his arms.

"Is she..."

"She's alive," Picard interrupted. "I need to find some clothes for her, a place where she can rest until our transport out tomorrow," he said.

The driver stared at the woman again, then shook his head. "No hotel will allow you stay there with her - not like that. But... I can find you a bundling room. They won't ask too many questions," he added.

A bundling room? Picard thought - then sighed and nodded. Better to be thought a client for whatever bizarre sexual act she was offering than to try and stay in public for a day and a night, he thought.

"Clothes?" he pressed.

The driver considered, then reluctantly nodded. "I can get them."

"I have money..."

"I don't want your money, human!" the Cardassian snapped back. "I just want you - and her and all of your kind - off my world! We may be dependent on your Federation for our survival - but that does not mean we want you here."

Picard gaped at the man, taken aback by the sheer fury in his outburst - then nodded. "I understand. We'll be off Cardassia tomorrow." He assured the man.

"And don't come back," he growled, then moved away, taking his place at the front of the vehicle once again.

"No," Picard agreed - then looked down at the woman in his arms. Neither of us will be back. This place has never been good for either of us, he added wordlessly.

And hour later, Picard found himself at the entrance to a shabby room in an equally shabby, non-descript building. The room that the driver taken them to was as basic as rooms came, it purpose obvious: a large bed intended for illicit sexual liaisons, a bathroom intended for cleansing away the residue of that liaison - and a discreet attendant who, for a price, would forget that anyone had ever been there.

Setting his burden on the edge of the bed, he turned, locked the door, then deposited the bag of clothing the driver had obtained for him on the floor - and turned to face the blanket-wrapped woman. Squatting down, he peeled the blanket from her face, and stared into her empty eyes.

"Dee?" he said softly - then sighed when she failed to react. "All right," he said, then moved to the bathroom, examining the space - and smiled.

A real shower, he thought - something we both need. Turning on the water flow, he set the temperature as hot as he could tolerate it, then returned to the bedroom. Lifting up the woman, he carried her to the bathroom, then slowly peeled off the blanket and jacket, then gently guided the woman into the shower stall and let her go..

And watched as she slowly sank to the bottom of the stall, the water pouring over her, either unable or unwilling to make the effort to bathe herself.

Lovely, he thought - then shook his head, knowing he had no choice. He stripped off his shirt and trousers, then stepped into the shower.

For a moment, hot water washed over him, easing away the tensions of the last few weeks, and he was tempted to enjoy the sensation, to savor the shower after such a long time - but this wasn't for him, he reminded himself firmly. Finding a dispenser, he pressed the control button, sniffed at the contents, then decided it was a soap of some kind, and began to massage it into her hair.

Dirt, filth, the residue of six weeks in prison, began to run down her body in black rivulets as the soap began its work. He worked at her hair for a few minutes, then moved his hands lower, tilting her face up so he could wash the worst of the dirt from her face.

The eyes that met his, however, were not the vacant ones that he had seen in the prison. A hint of recognition flickered in them - then slowly she raised her arms, staring at her hands and wrists.

"They're your hands, Dee," he said gently, knowing the thoughts that must be going through her head. "What happened, happened years ago. You're safe," he added.

She stared at the hands for a moment - then slowly continued to raise her hands to her head and began to wash her hair.

Picard smiled approvingly, then started to move his hands lower - and stopped, realizing what he was about to do. "Umm... I think that I should do your hair," he said. "You can attend to, um, everything else," he said, trying not to think of how the water looked as it coruscated over her body.

She looked at him, then lowered her hands, beginning to move them over the balance of her body.

Looking up, he kept his eyes locked on her hair, continuing to work the lather through the thick mats, trying to work his fingers through the knots, gently coaxing them loose and watching as clumps of dirt and debris washed down her body.

Finally, he thought the worst was gone; the rest could wait until she was...

Where? he asked himself. Where does she go from here? Not back to the Federation he knew; the documents might have been able to fool the Cardassians - but her DNA, her retinal scans - everything that Starfleet knew about her was on file with the Federation - and as soon as she appeared back in that sphere of space, she would be recognized - and hunted down.

Back to Romulus then? he asked himself. It would be for the best - but obviously she had left that sanctuary. How and why, he had no idea - and why she had returned to Cardassia, the hell of her nightmares, he could only imagine.

He looked back at her, meeting her eyes once more, silently asking, What do I do with you?

She looked back this time, recognition slowly dawning. "Jean-Luc?" she said softly.

He smiled, relieved, and nodded. "Hello, Dee," he answered her softly.

She looked at her soap covered hands, then looked up him again, and murmured, "I'm tired, Jean-Luc."

"I'm sure you are," he said, then, with a rush of fresh embarrassment, reached under her arm and lifted her to her feet. "Let's get you washed off..." he said, pulling her under the full force of the water, watching the last of the dirt and soap run from her body - then realized he had a wet, naked body in his hands. Turning off the water, he reached for a towel, quickly wrapping her tiny frame in the fabric - then hastily took a second one and wrapped it around himself.

Taking her arm, he moved her into the bedroom, guiding her to the bed, then helping her beneath the blankets. She stared up at him for a moment, clasping his hand, then let her eyes shut.

He held her hand for several minutes as her breathing slowed, then released it, took his bag from where he had dropped it and fished through it.

Pulling out a small first aid kit, he ferreted out the medical scanner, and began to pass it over the sleeping woman's body - and gave a sigh of relief.

Zumell's concerns aside, the Cardassian jailor had told the truth; there was no evidence that she had been sexually assaulted this time - though it was equally obvious that she had been beaten at some point, he added, noting the poorly healing areas of tissue. Starved as well, he added to himself, remembering how well her body could heal itself - when she took care of her physical self.

A few good meals, he told himself, some rest, and her body would recover - but her mind was another story he added.

For a time, when Zumell had first told him of her apparent mental instability, he had suspected it was nothing more than a ruse - one which she was 'pushing' her captors to accept. But seeing her there, trapped in the a cell so like the ones that haunted her dreams, seeing the axes so like the ones that had been used to cut off her hands, to cut off her daughter's head, he realized the instability was anything but a pretense; forced back into the hell she escaped only through her own death, it was no wonder her mind had collapsed.

But it still left unanswered the question that had vexed them since that night Zumell had called him in San Francisco, begging for his help: What the hell was she doing on Cardassia?

He watched the sleeping body for a moment, then raised himself from the bed, returning to the shower to wash the two weeks of transport stench from his body. Feeling clean at last, he wrapped a dry towel around himself, then crawled into bed next to the woman.

Tomorrow, he thought, tomorrow, I'll get some answers - and get her off this damned world.

He reached for the light control, turned it off, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

He woke hours later - but even as his eyes opened, he knew he was alone in the bed; he knew she had wakened during the night, dressed - and left.

_Dee,_ he called to her beseechingly.

_Don't worry,_ she whispered to him from somewhere in the city, _no one will remember I was ever in prison; no one will remember what happened. I can do that, you know._

_I know. I also know you can't stay here,_ he pleaded.

He heard her soft laugh, felt the shake of her head. _I won't - not for long - but I have work to do here first._

He nodded. _The Chiemma._

_When I... When I died, Zumell told me I had the opportunity to live my life over, to make good those sins I had committed in my first life. I let Varel die, Jean-Luc; I won't let any of the other children do so - not if I can help it._

_Dee..._ he tried.

_ I have to do this, Jean-Luc,_ she whispered.

_Dee..._

_I took some of the money you brought. You've enough to pay for the room and for a car back to the terminal,_ she added. I have Tiron send you the rest when I see him._

_Dee..._

_I have to do this, Jean-Luc,_ she begged him.

_I can't get you out next time,_ he answered.

_There won't be a next time,_ she countered. _I got caught because I reacted; I saw a man trying to kidnap one of the Chiemma - and I reacted without thinking. It won't happen again._

_Dee..._

_I have to do this, Jean-Luc. I have to try to save them._

He fell silent, then sat up, his legs hanging off the edge of the bed, his head in his hands - then nodded. _I can't stop you, Dee._

_No, you can't. _

He waited a moment, hoping that there might be a final word from her - but there was nothing.

_Goodbye,_ he said softly.

Picard turned to Deanna and gave her a bewildered look. "I'm afraid you must be mistaken, Counselor; I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, then turned his attention back to the stew.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"Geordi?"

The engineer started, still startled by the sound of that once-familiar voice.

I should be used to it by now, he chided himself; after all I've been hearing it all day.

But after so many years of _not_ hearing the voice, it still jarred him, reminding him of what had been lost for so long, of what almost was not - and, he added with a frustrated sigh, of what should not be.

"Geordi?" Data repeated.

"Yeah?"

"You are troubled, are you not?"

Geordi pulled back from the analyzer, wiped at the tears that filling his weary eyes, then nodded his head, then sighed. "Yeah. This isn't making any sense."

Data considered the man's response for a brief moment, hearing the stress in the man's words - then decided that if Geordi was avoiding the issue, it was not his place to press the matter. "I would assist you," he offered, "if I could see what you were doing."

"Sorry, Data," Geordi quickly apologized, rising to his feet, moving the screen so that the android, still immobilized, but now seated, could see the display. "I'm so used to you not being... I mean..."

"You are used to me being an inanimate object," the android suggested.

Geordi looked as his friend, startled by the accusation - then gave a reluctant sigh. "Yeah, you're right," Geordi agreed. "Sorry," he added, "but... It's been four years, Data; I guess I've gotten used to working by myself."

"That is understandable - but from my point of view, however, it has only been a few hours," the android reminded him.

"And you're used to working with me - not being worked on _by_ me," Geordi concluded. "I guess I've got some adjustments to make, haven't I?" he said.

"Not if you do not wish my assistance," Data countered.

Geordi laughed, the chuckle quiet and low - but there was a bitter, sad undertone to the sound. "Data, you don't know how many times I wanted just that - how many times I had to guess at what I was doing, remembering how many times I had done maintenance or repairs on you with you telling me what was working and what wasn't - and wondering if that day would ever come again - and now that it's here, I don't even think to ask for your help," he said. "Sorry," he repeated.

He looked at the monitor, adjusted the position, then looked at his friend. "How's that? Can you see it all right? Should I move it?"

"That is unnecessary, Geordi. I can adjust my optic receptors to compensate for the distance and angle," Data replied, then spent a moment doing so before looking at his friend once again. "I must inquire, however: at what I am looking?"

Geordi gave another apologetic laugh. "Sorry. I should have told you. The image on the right is the last circuit I was working on just before you can back on-line, Data. The one on the left is the same circuit before I disassembled it and rebuilt it. I'm trying to figure out which component in the circuit was the one that was responsible for you... uh, coming back," he explained.

Data looked at the engineer for a moment, then turned his attention back to the monitor. For a moment he was silent, then said, "That is odd."

"What?" Geordi replied, instantly rising to his feet to get a closer look at the monitor. "Do you see something in the circuits?"

"No."

"No?" Geordi echoed. "Then what's odd? What do you see?"

"Nothing," Data answered blandly.

"Nothing?" the engineer repeated, then shook his head. "What so you mean, nothing?"

"I mean, I see nothing. Or to be more accurate, I see everything - but I do not see it well. I have increased the sensitivity of my visual receptors - but the images are blurred, Geordi," he admitted. "It appears that my visual acuity servos seem to be ineffective at resolving images closer than thirty-two point three seven centimeters," he informed his friend.

"Ah," Geordi said. "Probably just need to fine tune the servo mechanism adjustment range," he said, as much to himself as to his friend, then moved behind the android, reaching for the panel that covered that covered the control mechanism, releasing the catch - then stopped.

"I'm sorry, Data," he apologized. "I'm just so used to you..."

"Being inanimate," Data repeated, then turned his eyes toward the man. "Geordi," he said gently, "you need not continue to apologize - nor to act as you are. I have taken advantage of the past several hours to avail myself of the public records regarding the Enterprise's encounter with the Remans and the Scimitar. You were in no way responsible for my actions, Geordi - nor for the results," he counseled his friend.

"I know, Data," Geordi sighed. "It's just... It's been four years, Data. For a while, I wondered if I could ever manage to bring you back on line - but now that I have, I can't stop thinking, why couldn't I have done it faster?" he admitted miserably.

"Do not chastise yourself. It took my creator, Dr. Noonian Soongh, far longer than four years to bring me on-line, Geordi," he reminded the engineer. "Rather than berating yourself, you should be commended on your perseverance and your success at this formidable task."

"Yeah," Geordi said, "but what Soongh did was different. You weren't... alive before he brought you on line the first time. This time..."

"This time," the android interrupted, "it was the same. I was not cognizant of time passing prior to my first start-up - nor was I aware of it passing while I was... dead," he told his friend. "In the first circumstance, one moment I was not aware - and then I was. In this case, I was not aware of the passage of time; from my perspective, at one moment I was recording my memories to download to B-4 - and then I was here. There was no loss of time from my point of view, Geordi; I was not 'waiting' for you - or for anyone - to revive me."

"Yeah, but..."

"Geordi," Data said gently, "I did not suffer. You, however, did - and you continue to do so. You should not. You have managed to restore my functions," he added, "and at great cost to yourself. I am thankful for your efforts; please do not continue to castigate yourself for any 'failure' you may perceive for the amount time you required for this achievement. To do so would be to cast a pall upon an event that should be celebrated," the android advised.

Geordi forced a grin. " 'An event that should be celebrated'?" he echoed. "You might want to check your humility sub-routine, Data; it seems as though 'dying' has given you quite an ego," he teased the android.

Data frowned, perplexed - then frowned again in frustration as his body servos failed to respond to his subconscious commands. "I was not referring to my 'resurrection', Geordi - but rather to your achievement in reconstructing me. After all, aside from Dr. Soongh, no one has ever successfully brought an android on-line before," he pointed out. "It is a significant accomplishment in the field. However," he added, "it would be more significant if I could move."

Geordi smiled at his friend. "Sorry about that, Data - but I want to be sure everything works before I risk you crashing to the ground the first time you try to walk. Dr. Soongh's notes - the few we could find - left a lot to be desired - as the problem with your eyes demonstrates," he said, moving behind the android once again, reaching for the pressure point on the back of Data's skull that would release the covering over the android's optic center, the opened the panel.

"Hmm," he murmured a few moments later as he studied the scanner readings. "The servo controls seem to be functioning - and the range parameters seem to be correct."

"Nonetheless, my close range vision is impaired," Data countered.

"Well, if it's not the servo, maybe it's your eyes," Geordi mused, reaching for a micrometer. "Now don't blink," he said as he moved the instrument toward Data's eye.

He pulled back several moments later, frowning, then turned to the computer, tapped the console, then raised his brow in surprise. "Data, for someone who's only a few hours old, you've somehow managed to acquire a case of presbyopia."

Data gave his friend a confused look. "Geordi, that is not possible. Presbyopia in humans and other humanoid species is related to deterioration of the muscles of the eye concomittant with aging."

"Only in part, Data," Geordi corrected his friend. "It's also related to a change in the shape of the eye as we age - and that's what's happened to you. Your eyes were one of the first components I built - but they the interstitial fluid balance has fractionally decreased since then."

"That is not unexpected. The permeable membrane of the eye was subject to such volumetric changes; the vitreous and aqueous humours of my eyeballs were kept in equilibrium with the original specifications through a self-correcting mechanism," Data agreed.

"And with you being off line so long, some of that fluid evaporated and wasn't replaced," Geordi said. "Fortunately, that's no more a problem for you than it is for most people; I can bring the eye volume back to design specs the same way a doctor does - and everything should come back into focus. Hang on," he said, moving away, then returning a few moments later with a small tray of tools and equipment, then leaned close once again.

"Try it now," he said, pulling away a few minutes later.

Data blinked several times, then turned his focus on the computer monitor. "It is greatly improved, Geordi. I can now use the servos to bring the image into clarity."

"I'm glad - but it just proves out my concern; if your eyes have altered since I rebuilt them, I'm sure your other components have been affected by time and lack of use as well. Before I let you try and walk around the ship, I want to make sure each component and servo is back to design standard."

"While I am... impatient... to move again, I believe prudence is the optimum choice in these circumstances," the android concluded.

He turned to the screen, studying the images intently, then shook his head. "However Geordi, while you have solved my dilemma, I am afraid I cannot solve yours."

"I don't understand," the engineer replied.

"You are attempting to determine the difference between these two images in order to ascertain what event that transpired to cause my return to consciousness," Data reminded him, gesturing with his head at the monitor. "However, I can find no difference between these images."

Geordi raised his hand, shaking his head. "Not possible, Data; there has to be a difference. That's the circuit I replaced just before you came on line - so whatever made you difference between you being off-line and on-line must be in that circuit."

Data studied the image again, then looked back at Geordi skeptically. "You may be correct, Geordi, but if so, the change is at a level below that which I am capable of detecting."

Geordi looked at the monitor again - and sighed. "I know, Data," he conceded, "and that's what's got me worried. If the difference between you being off-line and on-line is so minute, so minimal, what's to say you won't stop working whenever that one microscopic connection comes undone again; one inadvertent bump, one fall, one simple mis-step - and we would be back where we were a year ago."

Data considered the problem, then considered his friend. "If my existence were that precarious, Geordi, I should have damaged countless times during my previous 'life' - but history counters that argument. If the memories I downloaded to B-4 are correct, then I experienced severe physical trauma without component failure during my previous tenure on this ship; it is unlikely that that should have changed since that time," he pointed out.

"That assumes I rebuilt you correctly," Geordi reminded him.

"I am functioning, am I not?" the android reminded his friend.

"But you weren't yesterday, Data - and I need to know why," the engineer complained. "I need to know what happened between yesterday and today to make you function," he said, frustratedly.

Data nodded. "Your point is well taken, Geordi. I wish I could answer your question - but I cannot. At least, not at this point in time. I will, however, give it due consideration - and, in time, perhaps I will have an answer for you."

"Thanks, Data," Geordi said with a smile - then let the smile widen. "You know, it's good to have you back."

"It is good to be back," Data confirmed, "although I was not aware I was away. However..."

Geordi raised a brow, concerned. "What is it, Data? Is something wrong?"

"On the contrary: nothing is wrong. As far as I can determine, everything is quite 'right'. However, perhaps it is too 'right'; perhaps there needs to be something 'wrong'," he said.

Geordi shook his head. "I don't get you."

"Geordi, several minutes ago you diagnosed me as having the android equivalent of presbyopia - an ailment typically related to the process of aging."

"Oh, Data, that was just hyperbole," the engineer said dismissively. "You don't age; you aren't ever going to have to suffer from the effects of aging - and you shouldn't worry about it."

"I am not worried about aging, Geordi; I am worried about _not_ aging," he replied.

Geordi frowned and shook his head.

"Geordi, Ginger... Andile... and I spoke sometimes of her past. She told that her failure to age often placed her at a disadvantage with those around her. Her youthful appearance lessened her credibility with those who appeared to be her senior in age..."

"Captain Riker thought I was yanking his chain the first time he met her," Geordi murmured in agreement. "He thought I suckered some poor cadet into standing in as Biji as part of a practical joke."

"... while she has had to endure watching her friends and co-workers age around her - while she does not. It was very difficult for her, Geordi."

Geordi grinned. "She's a tough lady, Data; she can handle it."

To his surprise, however, the android frowned. "She is not that tough, Geordi - nor would you be if you continually had to face watching those you consider to be friends abandon you because they can longer identify with you. It damaged her emotionally and psychologically."

The engineer sucked in a breath. "Sorry, Data; I didn't know. She never let on..."

"She did not permit herself to show her pain - but I knew of that hurt - and I believe - no, I _know_ - that I do not wish to suffer it as well."

"All right - but I'm not sure what I can do to help you with that," Geordi replied.

"You can. You can help me age."

The engineer stared at his friend for a moment, bewildered by the request - then shook his head. "Data..."

"Geordi," the being interrupted, "The first thing I saw when I reawoke was you, the Captain... Admiral Picard... Captain Riker... and you had all aged."

"Yes, but that does not affect how we think of you," Geordi protested.

"Not today, no. Today you see before you the person - the same person - that you remember from the day I died. But soon you will come to realize how much the passing of four years has separated us; how time has affected you - but has passed me by. Knowing you all as I do, I do not believe you would come to resent me for that difference - but it will separate us - and the distance will only grow with time.

"Geordi, it has always been my desire, my goal, my wish, to be a part of humanity - not to be separate from it. If I am to be a part, then I must play that part, even to the extent that my appearance must change over time. I must age as you do."

The engineer considered the idea for a moment. "I can write that program, Data, but those changes will only be cosmetic; even if you age, you won't die. But we will. Data, at some point, you are going to be separated from us - forever," he reminded his friend gently.

"I know, Geordi. And when that time comes, when my ties to you and the others have passed, Andile and I will move on, restore our youthful appearances, and start a new life on a new world," he informed his friend.

"Andile?" Geordi echoed in amazement. "You're still planning on finding her? But... you heard what the admiral said: he didn't know where she is, Data, he doesn't even know if she's still alive," he protested,

"She is alive, Geordi; I know that," the android replied with quiet confidence.

"That may be - but she could be anywhere. How are you going to find her?"

"I do not know, Geordi - but I will. I know that as well," he insisted.

Geordi sighed. Now, even as it had been four years before, there were times when it was not possible to argue with Data. When he got an idea in his mind, there simply was no shaking it.

Perhaps it was his greater understanding of all the details of the topic involved, or his remarkable ability to understand how the components interacted and inter-related - or perhaps, Geordi admitted to himself, perhaps it was the android equivalent of intuition.

It was a ridiculous idea, of course; he wasn't even sure he believed in human intuition, let alone some sort of biomechanical sixth sense. But even so, he admitted, whether it was intuition or reason, more often than not Data was right - and even if he wasn't, there was no point in crushing his dreams - not today, he added, not when his own dreams and efforts had finally been fulfilled.

Or almost fulfilled, he added, reminding himself of the work that lay ahead of them both.

"Well, if you're going to find her, you're going to need a body that's up to spec. Let's run a full ocular assessment first..." he began reaching once again for the diagnostic tools of the table behind Data.

"Geordi?"

"Yes?" the engineer replied absently as he picked up a scanner.

"If my internal chronometer is correct, it is now almost oh-two hundred."

Geordi glanced at the chronometer on the work bench. "Um-hmm," he agreed.

"That means I have been on line for almost twenty-four hours - and that you have been conscious for at least that amount of time. It has been a day of great emotional tumult for you. Should you rest? I do not want you to overtax yourself on my account."

"Thanks, Data, but I'm fine," Geordi answered.

The android fell silent for a moment, then looked at his friend. "Perhaps - but I am not," he said at last.

Startled out of his trance, the engineer looked up. "What? What's wrong, Data?"

"I, too, have had a day of great tumult, Geordi. If what Admiral Picard says is correct, the world that I left - the world of my memories - is no longer a world in which I belong. It is a possibility which I never have considered - and the options and opportunities that lie before me were equally unforeseen. I am... overwhelmed, Geordi. If you would not mind, I would like the opportunity to reflect on what has happened - and what is to come," he informed his friend.

Geordi studied his friend for a long moment, then nodded. "You'd like to be alone," he said.

"If you would not mind," Data added.

"No. No, of course not. I'm sorry - I hadn't even thought of what you must be going through - I was just so anxious to get you back to what you were. I'm sorry; I forgot you're going to need to make as many adjustments as we are, aren't you?" he apologized.

"Perhaps not as many - but of equal import, certainly," Data agreed.

"Of course," Geordi repeated. "And I suppose I should get some sleep," he added. "Are you okay here? In the chair? Or would you rather be back in the frame?" he asked, concernedly.

"Until my neurological systems are resequenced, I have no sensation of pressure discomfort from remaining in one position, Geordi; you can leave me as I am without concern about my well-being," he told his friend. "But if you would diminish the ambient lighting?" he asked.

Geordi nodded, understanding the android's desire to have solitude and quiet after the frenetic activities of the day. Calling out the order, he watched as the lights faded, then turned to his friend. "Don't hesitate to call me if you need anything, Data."

"I will be fine."

"Do you want me to turn off the monitor?" Geordi pressed, reluctant to leave his friend alone. "I can leave it on if you want. Maybe you'll finally find what I did to being you back on line today," he added, half-jokingly.

"As I previously indicated, Geordi, the two images are identical; nothing that you did today has altered my potential functionality," he reminded the engineer.

"Yeah. Okay. Well, then I'll be back in the morning," Geordi said at last.

"Sleep well."

"I will."

For a moment, the two were silent, then Geordi looked at his friend on last time, his face illuminated by the glow of the monitor - and felt a wash of relief and grief rush over him - grief for the time lost, and relief for finally having his friend back.

If he was back, Geordi added, still worried about why the android had suddenly come back on line after so many years of failure - and still worried about how long that success might last.

He turned - then stopped as he heard his friend call out to him.

"Geordi?"

"Yes, Data?"

"Do you believe in the concept of the soul?"

Geordi smiled, then nodded to himself in the dark. "Yeah, Data, I do. It's not very scientific of me - but I do believe in souls."

"And do you believe I have a soul?"

"Of course you have a soul," Geordi protested.

Data thought for a moment. "The same soul as the one I had when I died?" he pressed his friend.

Startled by the question, Geordi drew a long breath, the let out an equally long sigh. "I... I never really thought about it, Data." He fell silent, then added, "I don't know. Does it matter?"

"Perhaps not. But... It has occurred to me that perhaps the reason that you can find no technical reason for my return to life is because there is none; the body you created was fully functional - it simply was waiting for the soul to return."

"You were waiting for your soul?" Geordi echoed worriedly.

"Yes."

"And now it's back."

"Yes."

Geordi raised a brow. "Data, do you know what that sounds like?"

"I suspect as though it sounds as though I have not been capable of separating my sensory inputs from my literary memory files," the android agreed.

"Yeah, like you can't tell fact from fiction," Geordi muttered.

"That may be the case, Geordi," Data conceded. "But it may also be the case that I am right. After all, if I had a soul, either it died when I did - or it remained unbound, free to roam the universe, until a corporeal existence was once again made available to it."

Geordi looked at his friend, skeptical - and worried by the android's sudden venture into the realm of metaphysics. Determined to point out the absurdity of the question, he asked, "Well, if that was the case, Data, why didn't you come back on line the first time I rebuilt your body? Why wait so long?"

"Because... Perhaps my soul was elsewhere, occupied with other tasks."

"That's an interesting idea," Geordi hedged. "And now? Have you finished those tasks?"

"I do not know, Geordi. I suspect, however, that my soul has returned to my body for a reason. A purpose."

"A purpose," the human echoed dully. "And that purpose would be...?"

"What it has always been: to be with Ginger," the android said simply. "Indeed, perhaps that is what I have been doing throughout this interim time: being with her, watching over her."

"And you suddenly returned to your body because...?"

"Because watching over her spiritually was no longer enough. Because... " Data looked at his friend, seeing the doubt in his expression - but knowing to the depths of his being that he was correct.

"I believe I have returned, Geordi, because she needs me."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

She woke at the unexpected sound, instantly alert, instantly ready - then gave a sigh of relief as the realization that it was no emergency, no disaster, no panicked call from an injured or ill patient rousing her from her sleep - only the soft chirp of her alarm gently calling to her.

No emergencies here, Beverly Crusher reminded herself - not that she had seen a real medical emergency in years; her position at Starfleet Medical had forced upon her a degree of separation from the front lines of emergent medical care - but even if she had been an actively practicing physician, she was a guest on this ship, a Starfleet official who was merely catching a lift to a conference - and no ship captain would readily call on a visitor to handle a routine medical emergency, not when there was a capable and competent medical team in place.

No, she told herself; no emergency, no disaster - nothing more than the sound of an alarm clock.

The rush of adrenaline quickly receding from her bloodstream, Beverly turned to the terminal on her bedside table, touched the alarm control, then fell back against the pillows, silently debating whether she could allow herself to indulge in another half hour of sleep - or get up and start the day.

The idea of allowing herself another few minutes of sleep was a tempting one, she admitted; despite the weeks of preparation, she had spent most of the previous two days racing around Starfleet Medical, tying up loose ends, alerting her staff to some last minute details, and dealing with the emergencies that always appeared the day before leave was to start - and almost missing her rendezvous with the ship that was to take her to the conference.

By the time she had settled into her quarters, unpacked her bags for the four day journey, met with the captain, suffered through the obligatory dinner with the command staff and the equally awkward post-dinner discussion that none of them really wanted to endure, she was exhausted to the point that she had barely managed to change out of her uniform and into a nightgown before falling into her bed - and into a deep and dreamless sleep.

But one that seemed too short, she thought as she studied the ceiling of her quarters, her body aching with fatigue, her mind dulled from sleep. She glanced at the clock a second time, hoping that she had somehow misread the time, or that the alarm had gone off prematurely - but the grim truth was that it was, indeed, six in the morning.

Five more minutes, she tried to convince herself. Just let me sleep five more minutes. No one will know or care...

Get up, another part of her mind insisted; this isn't leave - this was Starfleet Medical business - and you are the head of Starfleet Medical. And you've got work to do.

Even if the paper you're presenting is someone else's, she reminded herself, you damned well better know the subject matter backwards and forwards, so you can knowledgeably and confidently answer questions after the presentation. After all, you are representing a fellow physician and a fellow member of the Federation! she chided herself firmly.

As though there would be questions, she argued silently. Keynote speeches were rarely the subject of hot debate - and Sherril Jackson's paper was no exception to that tenet, she reminded herself. Not that it wasn't competently researched and well written, she hastily added, but the role of the keynote speaker at these events was to present an overview of the historic and current work - and leave it to the researchers to present their own new - and often more controversial - data.

And my role isn't even that important, she thought to herself: I'm just presenting the paper on Sherril's behalf. No matter how much I study her work, no matter how much research I do, no matter how well I know the material, the conference attendees will assume I don't know the topic well enough to pose even the simplest of questions - and be relieved in doing so; they won't feel any need to pose even a token questions - and they'll get through the boring opening and on to the heart of the meeting all the faster.

As I would, she added; how many times have I arranged to be conveniently 'late' to a seminar just so I could skip the dull formalities and get right into the heart of the matter?

Too often, she replied with a sigh, still able to hear Jean-Luc's reprimands even after all these year. "Rank hath its obligations as well as its privileges," he had reminded her - gently - after once such occasion. "And while Dr. Beverly Crusher may be able to claim that her medical duties preclude her full attendance at these seminars, Commander Beverly Crusher, chief medical officer of the Enterprise - the flagship of the Federation - has no such privilege; indeed, her duty requires not just her full attendance - but her complete attention as well."

I know, Jean-Luc, she told him silently; I knew my privileges and duties then - and I know them now. The title that allowed me to commandeer a place on this ship in order to get to the meeting also obliges me to reach the meeting on time and sit through the hours of pointless blather that would precede it.

She could, of course, claim that her work didn't permit her to attend the full meeting; that she was filling in for Sherril Jackson as a courtesy - but that she had to return promptly to San Francisco to fulfill her obligations as head of Starfleet Medical.

Except, of course, she had no obligations; after four years with barely a weekend off, she had made sure that nothing, short of another war, would require her return to San Francisco.

Of course, I made those arrangements so I could spend my time with Jean-Luc on Samarassia, she reminded herself angrily; now all those arrangements, all that careful planning to get the time off means I have no choice but to attend.

I could say I'm sick, she considered - then laughed.

Sick - at a meeting of the top physicians in the quadrant! That excuse would last all of ten seconds, she though with a laugh.

No, she knew, I have no choice; I have to attend - and attend all of it!

Damn you, Jean-Luc, this is all your fault!, she chided her friend silently; you've trained me too well!

After all, how many hideously boring ceremonies, dinners and cocktail parties had Jean-Luc sat through because duty required? she asked herself, smiling at the memory of his 'performance' expression, perfectly composed, displaying what appeared to be fascinated interest in the topic at hand while concealing every hint of boredom, frustration and exasperation as he listened to countless speakers, presenters, researchers and politicians over the years, remembering those times she had attended meetings with him, catching his eye on occasion - and trying not to laugh as he looked back at her, rolling up those hazel eyes of his as the speaker droned on, oblivious to the frustration of the audience.

They would laugh out loud about the speakers later, when time and discretion allowed, usually over a drink in Ten Forward or over breakfast the following morning, chuckling over the inanity and the pretentiousness that seemed part and parcel of every one of these conventions, sometimes even laughing over the same moment even years after the event.

I miss that, she sighed; I miss you, Jean-Luc.

Joining you on that archaeologic dig would have been fun, she thought, and maybe we could have... Well, there was no point dwelling on the maybes, she told herself; what we wanted for ourselves had always taken second place to the requirements of our duties - and duty had called, as it inevitably did; just as you sat through those interminable meetings that almost bored you to death because duty required, I too have my professional obligations.

Including familiarizing myself with that damned paper, she reminded herself, pushing back the fatigue, rising up from the bed, reaching for her robe.

Slipping it on, she took the padd from the nightstand, quickly scrolling through the paper to find the point where she had stopped late the last evening even as she entered the main room of the guest quarters and moved to the replicator.

"Tea," she said automatically. "Earl Grey - hot," she added - then stopped, smiled to herself, and shook her head.

Another old habit, she thought to herself; one thought of breakfast - and Jean-Luc - and I'm ordering his tea.

Or maybe not habit, she added as the cup materialized, the scent rising to her nostrils; maybe I just wanted to smell the tea, to have the scent of the bergamot take me back to those breakfasts - and him.

I do miss you, Jean-Luc, she repeated, but...

But we keep finding ways to avoid each other, she reminded herself. Oh, we've had a few days together - the weekend in London, the holiday in Paris - but those were always filled with things to do, things to keep us busy - and never with time for us to just to be alone together. Every time that opportunity presented itself, one or both of us found a reason to back out, a reason not to give ourselves the chance to say what we want to say - or, she admitted, a reason not to hear the words we both dread.

If we even know what we want to say, she admitted. Do I love you? Yes. Do I think you love me? Yes, she thought - but it's been years - decades - since that simple answer was the end to the questions; now it's only the start - and neither of us are ready to go there.

Not yet; perhaps never, she added.

And so we dance our little dance of uncertainty and fear, occasionally moving out so we can just touch, only to jump back into the safety of our protected little spheres of professional responsibility, letting our work serve as a substitute for the lives we're too scared to live.

She reached for the cup, raising it to her lips, savoring the warmth in her hands, then closing her eyes, drawing in a long breath - and smiled at the scent.

I miss you, Jean-Luc, she thought - then sighed; I miss you - but duty does call - and we both have our obligations.

The cup in her hand, she turned her attention back to the padd, shaking her head at an unexpected value, then tabbed through the document, searching out the footnotes even as she sipped at the steaming brew.

Transcription error? she murmured as she referenced the footnote - or was there really an elevated megakaroyocyte level in the patients? Whichever it was, this was the oddity that might well catch someone's attention at the meeting - and if anyone wanted to press her on it, she wanted to be sure she had the right answer.

Thumbing the padd's control, she searched for the reference, barely noting the chirp of the ship's intercom. "Bridge to Commander Crusher," a voice, apologetic, warm and vaguely familiar came back.

Lost in her work, she murmured back, "Crusher here; go ahead."

"Sorry to wake you, Commander," a woman's voice returned, "but I've got an incoming message from you."

Beverly looked up, taken aback by the unexpected remark, wondering if the woman was taking a dig at her position or her title - then realized there was no sarcasm or malice in the captain's tone - only sincere regret. Perplexed, she looked at the ship's chronometer - and shook her head in disgust.

No wonder I'm tired, she thought; it's just after two in the morning! she sighed, then shook her head again. I've been away from space too long, she thought; I've forgotten the basics of traveling on a ship - the first of which is remembering to reset your alarm clock to ship's time.

"Not a problem, Captain Elric," she answered, not about to let the ship's commander know about that mistake. "I'm awake."

"I understand," the woman replied knowingly, a smile audible in her words. "It always takes me a few days to make the shift from planet time to ship's time. I realize this is probably preaching to the choir, but you might want to consider a cup of valerian root tea; I find it works wonders after a long day," she added sagely.

Beverly nodded. "Sound advice, Captain - and I'll do so, after I take this message," she added.

"I'm sending it to your terminal. Get some rest, Commander," Elric concluded.

Beverly smiled back at the overhead speaker, more used to being the source of motherly advice than the recipient. "And you, Captain," she countered.

"I will, Doctor," Elric replied. "Have a good night," she added, then fell silent, allowing the computer to terminate the call automatically after a moment's silence.

Nonetheless, Beverly waited a moment longer before turning to the terminal and tabbing the communications button. The screen lit with the familiar array of stars and laurel shining brightly against the field of azure blue - then dissolved into the image of a familiar face.

"Deanna!" Beverly gasped, startled, delighted - then worried. "My God, is everything all right? The baby?"

Deanna grinned back at her friend. "Nothing's wrong, Bev; everyone's fine - which you would know if you were here," she added accusingly.

Beverly sighed, settling back in her chair, preparing herself for the rebuke she knew Deanna was about to administer. "Dee, I explained everything to Jean-Luc..."

Deanna raised her hands, stopping her friend in mid explanation. "I'm just giving you grief, Bev. The captain... the _admiral_," she corrected herself, "explained - though I don't think he fully understands why you'd rather spend your leave with a thousand clinicians talking shop when you could spend the time with him," she added teasingly.

"Spending a week with a bunch of pig-headed Kvesterians, then a week-long hike through sixty kilometers of rainforest, then another fifteen klicks of desert to a possible - and only possible! - archaeologic site, and spend another week or two digging in the dirt?" Beverly countered. "Which part of that doesn't sound like the ideal leave?"

"Yes - but it's still four weeks you could be spending with him," Deanna reminded her gently.

Beverly sighed, her shoulders slumping in frustration. "Deanna, we've been over this topic before..."

"I know," Deanna apologized, "but... let's be honest, Bev; neither one of you is getting any younger..."

"Thanks for that reminder," the physician interrupted caustically.

"I just meant: you've put off a relationship a long time; if you don't start one soon, when are you going to start one?" she pressed. "When he's too old to get it ..."

"Deanna!" Beverly cried out, appalled. "Just because you're pregnant and obsessed with sex doesn't mean everyone else is!"

"Of course they are," the Betazoid countered, "they just don't want to admit it!"

The two women stared at each other for a moment - then they both burst out laughing.

"Oh, Deanna," Beverly said as the laughter subsided, "I do miss you - and I do wish this conference hadn't come up. Even if I hadn't plan to meet with Jean-Luc, it would have been so nice to see you and Will again - if the two of you ever got out of the bedroom, that is," she teased her friend.

"My dear Dr. Crusher," Deanna replied haughtily, "a physician with your experience should know that an increased sex drive is a sign of a healthy pregnancy in a Betazoid woman," she said - then broke into a grin. "And we are both doing fine," she added, her hand protectively moving to her belly, caressing the swelling curve, then looked back at her friend. "Really, you don't have to worry, Bev," she said soothingly, "Alyssa assures me we're both fine - although the doctor in you wants to confirm that for yourself," she added with a smile.

"And I thought you said your empathy wasn't working these days," Beverly said suspiciously.

"I don't have to be an empath to know what my best friend is feeling," Deanna answered gently. "But as long as you insist on going to that conference and not coming here to check up me and Junior for yourself, you're simply going to have to take Alyssa's word for our condition.

"And speaking of taking Alyssa's word..." Deanna hesitated. "Bev, Alyssa has given me the go ahead to return to work."

"Work? But I thought..."

"You thought I was on leave," the empath interrupted, "and I was - but we've got a special patient, someone who I can help - someone whose treatment doesn't require my empathy - only my understand of humanity," she explained, her voice growing sober, serious.

Beverly stared at the terminal for a moment, perplexed by the woman's tone. "A special patient?"

Deanna nodded. "Very special, Beverly. It's... Data. He's alive."

She gaped at the woman on the screen for a moment, stunned into speechlessness, then managed, "Data? Alive? But... how?"

"Through Geordi, of course," Deanna replied. "You know he's been determined to try to find a way to rebuild Data's body, to upload the memories that Data downloaded into B-4 just before he... before he died."

Beverly nodded. "And he did it?" she finally said.

Deanna nodded, her eyes misting over. "He did it," she said simply. After all of these years of work..." She shook her head. "It finally all came together last night - this morning, I should say. One moment there was just the shell of his body standing there - and the next, he was... Data," she said, awed by the memory of her friend's return.

"Data. Our Data?" Beverly pressed.

"Our Data," Deanna agreed. "Or at least our Data up until the time he downloaded his memories into B-4."

"And B-4... Deanna, Geordi didn't do anything to B-4, did he?" Beverly gasped.

"Beverly!" Deanna gasped back. "This is Geordi we're talking about! B-4 might not be Data's equal - but Geordi would never hurt Data's 'little brother' - not even to save his friend! And even if Geordi would consider such a thing, the captain would never allow it. He's B-4's guardian, and he takes that role very seriously, you know." She eyes her friend. "You do know about that, don't you?"

"That Jean-Luc had taken legal guardianship of B-4? Yes," Beverly agreed quietly.

"He took Data's loss hard, Beverly," she said quietly, "harder than I think he would like any of us to know. Losing a crewman has always been difficult for him - but Data was more than just a crewman - he was a fellow officer - and a friend."

"And because Data died saving him," Beverly added.

"Saving us all," Deanna echoed.

Beverly shook her head. "I don't think I'm talking out of turn when I tell you how difficult it was for Jean-Luc to accept that, Dee; he had gone over to the Scimitar intended to do that very thing - to save the ship and the crew - and he failed - and Data had to die to correct that failure. It shook him, Deanna, more than he might admit - and I think, in part, it's one reason he accepted the Admiralty's offer of a promotion. Oh," she continued dismissively, "I know he's giving that old song and dance about it being a promotion or retirement - not that I wouldn't put it past the Admiralty to give him that ultimatum - but I think there was more to it than that. I think - no, I know - he was hurt by Data's death, and he was beginning to realize he didn't want to have to face any more losses like that in his life."

"People are still going to die, Beverly," Deanna countered. "He's still going to give orders that result in people's deaths."

"Yes - but not his people, not his friends - and not because he failed." She thought for a moment, then sighed.

"He didn't fail!" Deanna argued. "He killed Shinzon..."

"... but he couldn't save his ship. Data could - and he did - and he died doing it." She shook her head, letting the memory of that day fade, chasing away the image of Jean-Luc's empty, haunted eyes from her mind - then look at her friend once more. "Taking guardianship of B-4 was Jean-Luc's way of trying to repay a part of that debt. I suppose he'll be turning that over to Data now," she added.

Deanna shook her head. "Maybe - but not for some time. Geordi still has a considerable amount of work to do to ensure Data's physical reconstruction. After that, Data's existence and legal standing will have to be resolved - and Geordi's not willing to face that battle - at least, not yet," she sighed.

Beverly frowned. "Meaning?"

"Meaning... Meaning this is why I'm returning to work. Geordi thinks Data may have developed a mental aberration."

"Mental aberration?"

Deanna hesitated. "He sent me a report a few minutes ago - and he says that he thinks there may be a fault in Data's positronic net; he thinks Data's delusional."

"Delusional?"

Deanna sighed frustratedly. "This would be a lot easier if you were here, Beverly."

"Yes, but I'm not - so tell me what happened. Why does Geordi thinks Data's delusional?"

"From what Geordi said in his report, Data thought that the reason that all of Geordi's efforts to bring him back on line were unsuccessful - until today - was because... because someone needs him," she said at last.

"Someone? Someone who?" Beverly pressed, perplexed.

Deanna rolled her eyes as though the answer should be obvious to the doctor. "Someone important enough to Data that he would return from the dead to help," she said emphatically.

Beverly considered, then shook her head. "Jean-Luc?"

The Betazoid shook her head. "_Someone_ else."

Beverly thought a moment longer, then shook her head in resignation. "I don't understand, Dee. Who?"

Deanna gave a groan of frustration. "Someone who would have done the same thing for him that he did for us; sacrificed herself to save the ship - and him."

Beverly thought for a moment longer - then realization flashed through her. "And..." she started to say, only to see Deanna raise a hand to silence her.

"Don't say it, Bev," she cautioned her friend. "That's a dangerous name to use over subspace."

"This is a secure line, Dee," the physician protested.

"Not secure enough," the woman replied cryptically.

Beverly frowned, her curiosity rising, regretting - and not for the first time - that she had agreed to attend this meeting rather than visit her friend. "All right," she said at last. "It's... an old friend of ours. And Data thinks that's why he suddenly functional? Because he's somehow aware that she needs him?"

Deanna nodded.

Beverly raised a brow. "Geordi's right; he _is_ delusional."

"Is that your professional opinion?" Deanna pressed.

"No, just a personal one. Dee, Data has no telepathic or psionic abilities; there's no way he could be 'aware' of where she is or what she's doing. Hell, even we don't know what she's up to! Data's... friend... isn't even in Federation space!"

Deanna gave her a puzzled look. "Then... he didn't tell you either?"

"Who? Tell me what?"

Deanna shook her head. "The captain, Bev. He saw her."

"What?!" Beverly gasped, stunned - and stricken. Jean-Luc hadn't said anything to her about seeing Andile - but he had told Deanna?

"I don't know the details, Bev - but there's not a doubt in my mind that he's seen her. He won't admit it, of course; he flat out lied to Data about it and to us - but after fifteen years as his personal counselor, I don't need my empathy to know when he's lying. He's seen her, Beverly," Deanna said flatly.

For a moment, conflicting emotions filled the woman - then she forced them back, compartmentalizing them until she could consider each one in order - then looked at her friend.

"Okay, he's seen her - and somehow Data has come to the conclusion that she needs him. So what do you want from me?" she asked bluntly.

"I want a professional medical opinion on Data's mental health," she said. "You're the only person in Starfleet who's qualified to perform that type of examination on an android."

"I can't give that to you without an examination, Deanna - and I can't get out of this meeting to do that exam," she replied. "But... " She hesitated a moment, thinking, then nodded. "Data had a deep bond with our absent friend - and that bond existed in the memories that he downloaded to B-4. It's possible that those memories were affected or altered, either by storage in B-4's net or by having an insufficient emotional neural structure in place in Data's brain when he came on line to handle the input - and they have reasserted themselves in this manner."

Deanna nodded. "So you think it's possible that this is a just a 'damsel in distress' scenario that Data developed to explain his return?"

"It's possible; he never did come to terms with all of his emotions, especially those involving a certain someone," Beverly explained. "If his emotional development runs akin to humans, he's going to be applying some emotionally immature explanations to his feelings until he fully integrates the more mature scenarios. Logically, he understands how he was brought back on line - but emotionally, he has to explain it in some other way."

"That makes sense," Deanna mused. "It's how a child would view it - and emotionally, Data is still very young."

"That doesn't mean he's not delusional," Beverly quickly added. "There really could be some fault in his net - but that's unlikely; we've never seen that type of fault in any of the positronic brains Soongh developed. So, short of a full exam and neural workup, that's my best educated guess. In the interim, work with him on developing those more mature scenarios, and see if he doesn't start to put his revival in a more conventional context. If my travel arrangements keep to schedule, I should be able to get to the Enterprise in about three weeks and I can do a full exam then."

"That'll be after we drop off the archaeological team - and we've a mission to complete before we return for the retrieval," Deanna reminded her. "You know, you could just deliver the address then get a shuttle and meet us at Samarassia IV. You might miss the first few days of the dig..."

"First, there aren't any shuttles available," she interrupted Deanna. "Believe me, I checked; I was looking forward to spending some time with Jean-Luc and I wasn't going to give it up without trying to find some way to join him - but Aldo Three is a medical research facility, not a starbase. They simply don't have any long range shuttles, let alone one that I can commandeer. And I can't just dismiss this meeting, Dee; I am the head of Starfleet Medical," she reminded the woman.

"I know - but in a year, or five years, or ten years, you won't be," Deanna countered. "What you will be is alone - and so will Jean-Luc - and I don't want that for either of you. Bev, your dedication to duty is blinding you to the important parts of life," the empath countered.

Beverly sighed in exasperation. "Dee..." she began - then raised her hand, silencing herself. "Dee, whatever Jean-Luc and I have - or don't have - a few weeks won't make any difference. If we're meant to be together, then we will be. If nothing else, Jean-Luc and I will have at least a few days to visit after he returns to the Enterprise and we both head back to Earth."

"A few days - when you could have had a month together," Deanna scoffed.

"Dee..."

"Sorry," the Betazoid apologized - although not very sincerely.

"For now, let's just see what we can do for Data," Beverly finished. She thought for a long moment, then looked at Deanna soberly. "It's really Data?"

Deanna nodded slowly. "It's really him."

Beverly bit at her lip, forcing back the tears that threatened - then smiled. "Then do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"Give him a hug and a kiss for me - and tell him I'll be there as soon as I can," she said.

Deanna nodded. "And did you want me to do the same for Data?" she said - then grinned mischievously.

Beverly rolled her eyes up, shook her head and sighed. "Go to bed, Deanna. It's late - and you and your baby need some sleep."

"Yes, ma'am," Deanna replied caustically.

"And give Will a hug and a kiss for me."

Deanna grinned widely. "Oh, I'll do more than that."

Beverly shook her head. "If this is what you're like during pregnancy, God help him when you enter the Phase," she murmured - though she doubted Will would have any objections to sating whatever needs Deanna's changing hormones demanded.

"Hey! Let's not make me any older than I already am, Bev. The Phase is still more than a few years away," she reminded her friend, "and with any luck Will will be an admiral by then, so he should be able to adjust his schedule to meet my needs without too many comments," she added with a grin. "For now, we just remind ourselves that it's only for a short time - and for the most part, I'm able to control myself until he's off duty."

Beverly nodded. "Just don't kill him," she warned the woman.

"I'll try my best."

"And keep me posted about Data?"

Deanna nodded. "I will. Good night, Beverly."

"Night, Dee," she replied, then thumbed off the communicator switch.

She stared at the monitor for a few minutes - then noticed the time log showing the moment of the disconnect: oh three sixteen.

Three hours until I have to get up, she realized, pushing herself up from the computer station, grabbing the now cold tea cup and wearily heading back toward her sleeping area. Shedding her robe, she lat it across the foot of the bed, set the cup on the nightstand, then crept between rumpled linens, reaching to her nightstand and resetting her alarm clock to the correct time.

"Computer, lights out," she called, then watched as the lights faded away, leaving her to stare up at the stars above her bed, alone but for her thoughts - thoughts that were as active, however, as any bed partner.

There was, of course, only one choice she could make; she had her responsibility, her duty to her post, her profession, to her friend and to the doctors who were waiting to hear her presentation.

And in the end, duty was all that really mattered.

She turned over and let her eyes close, pushing away the thoughts of duty and responsibility, and leaving her mind open and quiet, letting the images of friends pass by her as sleep slowly took hold once more.

Deanna.

Will.

Geordi.

Andile.

Data.

Jack.

Jean-Luc.

She drew in a deep breath, the air now filled with the faint scent of tea and bergamot, and smiled as sleep claimed her.

Jean-Luc.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"Shh," she said softly, urgently, pressing her lips against the crying child's head, rocking the little body back and forth as she murmured the soothing sounds. "Shh. It's all right, Bashi, it's all right," she insisted to the child even as she reached out to draw another sobbing child into her embrace. "It's all right," she repeated, cuddling the children together, "it's all right. _We're_ all right," she added emphatically.

Far from soothing the fretful cries, however, her words and comforting embrace seemed only to exacerbate the children's fears, and a moment later, the chorus grew as the others began to call out to her, reaching to her for the comfort of her arms and her words.

Opening her arms as wide as she could without losing her grip on the first two, she pulled a half-dozen of the youngsters close, whispering reassurances, touching outstretched arms and hands to comfort their terrors, nodding at the others that surrounded her to draw closer - then looked up at her companion.

S'bey nodded, herding those too terrified to move of their own accord into the gathering, until the entire group huddled together around the woman at the center.

She shushed their noises again, softly, firmly, confidently, gently refusing to allow them to wallow in their own fears. "We're all fine, my loves. We're all fine."

"Ish kana kappe te!" one little voice protested tearfully, a finger pointing accusatorially at the woman.

Startled, she looked at the appendage, noted the green blood that made a dark emerald line against the flesh, then nodded. "You're right; we're not all fine. Your finger is cut. Come here, and let me make it better," she added, releasing her hold on one of the children in her lap, then reached out and brought the injured child to her.

She inspected the wound for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. "It doesn't seem too bad. I think you'll be fine," she added, then kissed the scratch and met the tear-filled eyes soberly. "Is that better?" she asked.

The little girl looked back with equal sobriety, then nodded.

Instantly, the noise in the group swelled again, as each child discovered a similar injury - some real, most imagined - and demanded, noisily and tearfully, the same treatment that the first child had earned.

Smiling, she drew them each to her, one by one, assessing their wounds, administering similar treatment to each, then settled the last one into her lap and faced them all again.

"That was a little scary, wasn't it?" she said.

There was a nod of assent, punctuated by a few sniffs of tears being choked back.

"Usually the captain tells his passengers when the ship is going to go through one of those scary, bumpy turns," she continued.

"Uma e jei," one tiny voice countered.

"Uma e jei ikato!" someone else agreed.

"I didn't hear him make an announcement either," she agreed. "Maybe he forgot - or maybe," she added, her voice dropping slightly, forcing the children to draw closer to her, "he didn't think he needed to tell us. A captain tells passengers about those scary, bumpy turns because they don't know what's going to happen - but an experienced space traveler knows about them. Maybe he just thought we were all so used to traveling by starship that we didn't need to be told - that we would just be used to them."

The children studied her for a moment, confused, then one of the older boys offered, "Kem, tu kate it farsho."

"Well," she agreed, "I know you're not experienced travelers - but the captain didn't. After all, you've all behaved so well on this trip that he must have assumed you've done this a hundred times before!" she told them.

The children looked from her to each other, some not sure how to interpret the words, while the eyes of some of the older children opened in surprise - and began to beam with pride.

"But next time, maybe he should tell us first."

"Komiada, makto!" a few protested.

"Oh, I won't let him know it's because you were scared," she said instantly. "I'll say... I'll say that everyone liked it so much that we all want to be ready so we can enjoy it again! How does that sound?" she asked cheerfully.

The children nodded, giving their approval of the idea, then beginning to talk amongst themselves as the woman rose to her feet and made her way through the crowd toward S'bey.

Gesturing at him, she drew him aside, her voice dropping below the level of the children's discussion.

"Are you all right?" she asked, reaching for his chin, turning his face from one side to the other, trying to better inspect the bruises it displayed - but the flickering red lights of the failing control panels offered little illumination for that examination.

Disdaining the need for care, S'bey pulled back, shaking his head. "Tu maka," he insisted.

"What happened?" she asked softly.

He shook his head. "T'mek tarive," he replied. "Usa gitou takamary as mate, usa como gitou, iq mot sama tera kavo."

One minute I'm helping the children get ready for sleep, the next moment, we're all flying across the room.

As was I, she thought, trying to recall the moments before the ship's sudden lurching.

"Jet muthe karisamino," he volunteered.

"I don't know," she countered. "If it was a Bryonan mine, we shouldn't be here now; that field may be thousands of years old - but those mines haven't lost their efficacy."

"Ugamsi felimato?"

"Engine failure? No," she conceded. "I realize I don't know Orion engineering - but this is no Orion vessel. This ship is cobbled together from Federation, Cardassian, Romulan and Klingon technology - and while she may be a piece of shit, it's a piece of shit I can understand. It wasn't an engine failing that did this," she added, gesturing to the panel, lit now only by the occasional red tell-tale light. "And whatever happened, I can understand well enough that nothing's working - and I think that includes communications. That or the captain's too injured or too busy to contact us," she added.

"Coo metsu," he answered.

"Or dead," she agreed.

"Mesu cani ty," the young man offered. "Prot mekta voesimt capitusa."

"S'bey, I don't _want_ to captain this ship," she protested. "In case you've forgotten, that incompetent has moved us into a minefield - and I never completed my training as a helmsman! Yes, I can fly a shuttle or a runabout - but this ship is a dozen times larger. It would take me weeks of practice to learn how to maneuver her about - and that's not something I want to try in the middle of a minefield! And that's assuming we have any sort of propulsion or navigation or sensors," she added - then looked at the consoles again. "Which we don't," she reminded him, then continued, her voice growing soft as she thought. "At least, not down here."

"Suma ta kie, efhat grannoi te?"

"Maybe," she admitted. "The only way I'm going to know, though, is to go up there and find out what the situation is. Worst case scenario is that the captain's alive, the bridge is fully functional - and he's determined to take us through the rest of this minefield," she conceded.

"Veht maje liop ta ke?"

"The best case scenario... doesn't exist. No matter what I find up there, S'bey, this isn't good," she admitted softly, shivering at her own ominous words.

She froze for a moment, then swore silently.

Shit!

"S'bey, it's starting to get a little chilly in here," she told him softly, urgently. "That means we've lost environmental control - or worse," she added grimly.

"Shesh?"

She shook her head. "We're in the most secure area of the ship, S'bey; if it's starting to chill down in here, that means we may be looking at a systems failure or a major hull breach. Either way, we don't have much time."

She looked at the children, at the tiny faces that had turned to her for this last hope, this one last chance at life - and shook her head fiercely.

"No," she said firmly. "I'm not going to let you die, too," she told them - then turned to S'bey.

"Get them close to the core. Get the mattresses set up around the core, make tents out of the blankets, get them huddled together for body heat. Don't worry about radiation from the core; radiation sickness is the last thing we need to worry about. But... try to keep Mshara and Usmet as far away as possible," she conceded. "They're both pregnant; I don't want to damage their babies if I can avoid it. I don't know what the level of medical technology will be when we get to Charon, but in vivo radiation treatment has never been one hundred percent effective even at the best of medical centers. Let not risk their babies if we don't have to.

"Move them, S'bey - but make a game of it; don't let them realize what's happening," she told him. "Get them comfortable and happy; feed them everything we've got; get them warm and full and sleepy until I can get back."

"Waj taku?"

"As soon as I can," she said, "but it's going to be a while. Based on these displays, I'll guarantee the lifts aren't working, and it's going to take time to climb the access ladder up to the bridge. But I'll get back here as soon as possible," she promised him. "I'll see if I can't find some portable heating units as well. I suspect our good captain didn't stint when it came to equipping his own quarters - and if he's got anything we can 'borrow', I'm sure he won't object."

"Mayt sama top ge," S"bey agreed drily.

"Yes," she grinned, "especially if he doesn't know about it." She glanced at the children once more, smiled reassuringly at the few who looked her way, then turned back to S'bey and clasped his arm.

"Take care of them," she ordered him. "Get them home safe," she added, then turned away before he dared to say anything.

Moving through the double doors that led from the engineering bay to adjoining corridor, she was startled by the marked drop in the hall's temperature; startled - then crushed.

A failed environmental system - even a failed system on a piece of crap ship like this, she thought - wouldn't account for such a precipitous drop in the ship's temperature. She'd been on ships that had lost their environmental systems, and even when those systems had been completely powerless, it had taken hours before the temperature drop had become readily noticeable. Admittedly, the Orion had kept this ship incredibly warm, and any drop would be all the more noticeable - but it was fucking cold out here, she thought, pulling her jacket around her more tightly.

The hull's been breached, and we've vented our atmosphere and most of our heat into space, she knew instantly - and the only we're not dead is because whoever designed this ship put Engineering at the heart of the vessel.

The gods bless that designer, she thought - but even the best design in the world isn't going to be enough when that air goes toxic.

Which would be...

Stop that! she chided herself roughly. Stop being an engineer! Right now you need to focus everything you have on saving those children - stop wasting your energy on calculating the exact moment of your failure!

But I will fail, she thought as she continued down the increasingly cold corridor; a ship this old, with a breached hull - and probably nowhere near the equipment needed to patch her up well enough to get the hell out of this minefield, she added - and nowhere near the people needed to make those repairs, she added, even if we had the materials.

I will fail - and those children will die because of me!

Gods! Who did I think I was - their savior? That I could spare them the future that fate - that their own people - had decreed for them - only to have them die here, now?

And S'bey...?

For a moment, the desolation, the pain of her imminent failure welled up in her soul, stopping her in her tracks, forcing a sob from her throat - then she harshly rubbed the tears from her cheeks.

Fuck the self-pity, she told herself. You don't have time for that now. Get up to the bridge; see what's reparable, see what's not, see what you can piece back together - and find out what that worthless Orion is doing!

Her anger warming her, she stepped toward the lift doors- but the metal panels refused to open to her presence.

No lifts, she confirmed - but there would be an emergency staircase designed for lift repairs within the lift shaft.

For the first time she felt a wave of gratitude for not having found a captain with a larger ship; in a vessel this size, the climb would be treacherous and exhausting - but in a larger vessel, it would be near impossible, especially with the dropping temperatures. Even if the flesh of her hands didn't freeze to the cold metal, the cold would take its toll on her energy quickly - but here, in this small ship, she was sure she could make the ascent.

If she could get into the shaft, she added.

No power to the control board, she though as she eyed the panel alongside the door, but I should be able to short circuit the door leads easily enough - and there would be enough residual current in the system to open them a fraction of an inch; given that, all I'll need is a pry bar of some type...

She looked around hall for a moment, her eyes pouring over the piles of debris and equipment that the captain had never found time to - or bothered with - taking care of, and spied a short length of metal, slightly twisted and bent - but good enough for her purposes.

As she pulled the metal free, she noticed a few old rags lying near the bar. Grabbing the clothes and the bar, she carried them to the lift doors, then wedged the narrowest part of the bar beneath the panel.

For a moment, the plastisteel cover resisted; she slid the bar further beneath the cover then leaned against the lever with her full weight.

Plastisteel was only so strong, she knew; apply enough force and...

With a noisy _crack_, the cover popped off, shooting free from the wall, only to come to an abrupt stop as the connecting fibers reached their full length; it fell, then hung, dangling slowly beneath the now open panel.

Grinning triumphantly, she looked over the fibers, pulled two free, touched them together, saw the blue spark of the last traces of the panels residual current jump the gap, then dropped the fibers, turning to the doors once again, knowing that whether the maneuver had worked or not, she would get no further assistance from the control panel.

She studied the door for a moment, running a hand down the divide between the panels, finding it had parted only a fraction of a centimeter - but enough, she decided that she could wedge the bar into the gap and pry the doors apart.

Setting down the metal bar, she reached for the rags she had found, quickly wrapping them around her hands, shoving the loose ends under the wrap to secure them, then reached for the bar once again. They weren't thermal gloves, she thought as she felt the chill of the metal bar quickly penetrate her skin - but they would be enough to protect her hands against the worst of the cold on the climb up the access ladder.

Wedging the bar between the barely opened door, she tried the same maneuver that she had on the panel cover, knowing that while duranium was far harder than plastisteel, these door were designed to slide open under just these circumstances. If she could get the leverage just right...

But while forty-five kilos and a lever might do battle and win with a thin layer of plastisteel, they were not enough to move these doors, she realized quickly. Get S'bey and add his weight to the equation, she decided - except that would take him away from the children - and if one of them wasn't there with them at all times, they would panic.

It had happened before, in the first few days that they had been with them, and it had almost cost them their departure from Cardassia Prime. Here, the consequences could be far worse; with all the damage in the Engineering bay, a panicking child could be lost, hurt - even killed, as ran around the room terrified, searching for one of their two protectors - and finding no one.

And, she added pragmatically, S'bey weighed little more than she did; if her mass couldn't move the door, it was unlikely that the teen-aged Cardassian would be any more able to move the panels apart.

But maybe mass wasn't the key; wasn't there a human phrase about levers? "Give me a long enough lever and I'll move the world"? she reminded herself.

Quickly looking back through the piles of debris, she found several more pieces of discarded metal; selecting the sturdiest and longest of the bunch, she dragged it back to the barely opened doors, feeling a trickle of sweat beading up on her forehead, threatening to run down her face.

Not good, she thought; you don't want to work up a sweat when it's cold. Setting the bar down, she raised a hand to her face, wiping off the sweat from her brow, then sighing at the wrap that had already come undone - then stared at the loose end.

The rag was wavering, moving ever so slightly as it hung from her hand. She stared at it, watching it quiver with every beat of her heart - then watched it move again - between heartbeats.

It shouldn't be moving, she thought, dully surprised by the motion. The environmental system was gone; there was no air moving on the ship - except for when I exhale.

She held her breath for a moment, watching the rag - and saw it waver once again.

Toward the lift doors.

She looked at the doors in horror, then ripped the rag from her hand and licked her fingers, holding them before the fractionally parted doors - and felt the barely perceptible flow of air moving over her hand.

The air was moving out of engineering, she thought hollowly - but not because the ventilators were pushing it. Quite the opposite; something was pulling the air out of engineering - and out of the ship.

Stunned, she raised her hand, placing it flat against the surface of the door - and felt the sharp bite of the bitter cold.

"Fuck!" she shouted angrily, cursing both fate and her own foolishness. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" she screamed, slamming her fists against the doors - then fell against them, furious and heartsick.

Sinking to the ground, she stared at the metal bar she had been about to wedge into the door - then kicked it away angrily.

Idiot! she yelled at herself. You think there's a hull breach - but do you checking the fucking door before you try to open the gods-cursed thing?! Oh, no, you just charge in, and start pounding away at the doors as though it's a regular jammed lift, not even fucking bothering to check to see if there's a fucking vacuum on the other side!

Gods, a fraction of an inch more, and you would have killed them all!

I did kill them! she screamed back at herself; I brought them here, when I should have left them where they belonged...

Left them to die of starvation, disease, raped and abused and tortured and murdered...? the voice replied gently.

Better there than here, she countered.

Better to die in fear and pain and terror and alone than here? Warm and with full bellies... and with someone who they know loves them?

I don't love them. They're cargo.

Of course. That's why you kissed Bashi's cut finger, and kept Usmet and Mshara as far from the radiation as possible.

They're _precious_ cargo, she countered angrily.

Of course, she replied gently.

And I've still killed them.

Not yet - and while there's life, there's hope.

What is it with all these Earth phrases today? she asked herself angrily.

There was no answer; there didn't need to be. They both knew the reason her recent thoughts had been on that distant planet.

Well, I don't have time to think about that right now. Right now I have to think about... them.

Your cargo.

My cargo.

She fell silent, stilling even her own voices for a moment, then nodded.

There were four possible routes to the bridge; the main lift shaft and its secondary backup, and two access routes.

Assume they're all in vacuum, she told herself. You'll need a EV suit to use any of them - and you need an airlock to transit from here to there.

Under other circumstances, an airlock wouldn't be a problem - but without power, I've got no way to pump air in and out; every time I open the door I'm going to lose some atmosphere - and we probably don't have much to start with - and we're losing more with every second, she added, glancing at the barely parted lift doors.

First things first, she sighed, hauling herself to her feet, pulling open every door, every hatch, searching for a tool kit of some sort.

And finding none; whatever her Orion captain was, he was not an engineer.

What he was, however, she added with a grin as she opened a door, well concealed behind a pile of junk, was more than enough for her.

Pulling out the contents, she quickly identified a half dozen hand disruptors, two phaser rifles, and five Breen energy weapons - and tidy arsenal for a lone captain, she thought.

And one who intended to stay that way, she added, spying the sole EV suit secreted in the back of the cabinet; apparently her captain had decided that if he had to abandon his ships to thieves or pirates, they would not have the option of following him off the ship.

Pulling out the suit, she quickly inspected it for holes or tears - but unlike the rest of the vessel, the suit was in near-perfect condition.

Five sizes too large, she admitted, but perfect. Now she could get to the remainder of the ship.

First things first, however, she reminded herself.

Grabbing one of the phaser rifles, she hefted it onto her shoulder and hauled it back to the lift and the miniscule gap that was slow allowing the engineering bay's air to escape. With a quick adjustment to the power setting, she aimed the weapon, then squeezed the trigger.

Slowly tracing a line down the gap, she watched as the energy of the phaser turned the metal to liquid, running for a moment to fill the gap, then solidified quickly, welding the opening shut.

So much for the air leak, she thought as she shut the weapon down a few minutes later, nodding approvingly at her handiwork - then gave a sigh of self-recrimination.

Don't be too damned proud of it, she chastised herself; if you hadn't fucked up in the first place, you wouldn't have needed to weld it shut!

Hefting the weapon back onto her shoulder, she gathered up the remaining armaments, bundling them into her arms and hurrying back to the main Engineering bay.

"S'bey," she called out as nonchalantly as she could, trying not to disturb the children who were gathering together on the reorganized mattresses.

The young Cardassian hurried to her side.

"Komiada?"

"I found some weapons stashed in a locker," she said, dumping the weapons into his arms. "If it starts to get too cold in here, fire them at the deckplates to generate some heat." She looked at him soberly. "You know how to use them?"

S'bey had been studying the find; hearing the question, he raised his head and met her gaze head on. "Mek tu seto sani," he pointed out. "Meso taka useto matiod."

I've been with you for two years; I know how to handle weapons.

She bowed her head, shamed. "I never meant to do this to you, S'bey; all I wanted to do was to give you back your life," she said quietly.

"Do mek," he replied. You did.

She studied him for a moment, seeing not the gangly, ill-fed child who had befriended her two years before, nor the rail-thin teenager he had become, but saw instead the young man - the young officer, her right hand - he now was.

"Thank you," she told him softly.

Enough said, she started to turn, only to be pulled back by his grasp upon her arm.

Suspecting that S'bey was on the verge of an emotional release, she opened her mouth to forestall that awkward moment - only to see him take one of the disruptors and hand it back to her.

She stared at it.

If the captain were still alive, she thought, he might not be willing to allow her to commandeer his ship - even if it was to save the lives of the children, and himself. After all, that life would be a short one when her family learned of his treachery and duplicity - and keeping her from revealing that story could be a simple matter - if he were armed and she were not.

And the captain might not be the only thing she found above decks. The explosion that had rocked the vessel might have come from another source; it wouldn't be the first time a pirate ship had lain in wait, hiding like a spider in its web, waiting for an unsuspecting victim to blunder in - though she found herself wondering what kind of moron would be willing to tackle the Bryona minefield just to hijack someone's ship.

Probably the same type who thought that crossing the field to save a few weeks of time was worth the risk, she reminded herself.

Morons, both - but desperate ones, she added, and desperate men do desperate things. Taking the phaser from S'bey, she tucked it into the waistband of her uniform trousers, then pulled her heavy Romulan jacket over them both.

"I'll be back," she assured S'bey, then hurried out of the bay once again.

One lift out of commission, she thought as she entered the corridor again - but the other lift, the one they had used to move the children and the supplies down here earlier that day, should still be locked on this deck, even if it wasn't functional.

Put on the suit, she thought to herself, pop the door, get in close the door - then open the ceiling hatch. Whatever air was in the lift compartment would be lost to the vacuum that occupied the rest of the ship, but she would have access to another set of emergency stairs that would grant her free reign of the ship. All she would have to do is drop the supplies down the lift shaft as she found them, then climb down, shove them through the ceiling hatch, let herself through, seal the hatch, and open the door to the engineer level. There would be another loss of air, of course, she reminded herself, and that was something they could not afford to do more than a few times - so make this trip worth it, she decided.

See what can be repaired on the bridge, and make the repairs, she told herself. Environmental first, propulsion second...

And if nothing's reparable? she asked herself.

Gods, aren't you the cheery one today? she replied. If nothing works, then... Then I'll figure out something else, she announced decisively.

Then you better get moving, she reminded herself; the children are using up their air with every passing moment.

Look for rebreathers, she added to her mental list of equipment to search out; portable air containers as well, she added, wondering if the Orion had been as fastidious about keeping a full tank of air in the EV suit as he had been about keeping it in good condition.

Hopefully he had been - but if not, prioritize, she thought. Make each moment count; don't waste a breath.

She turned to the open cabinet once more, then pulled out the suit and began to strip off her own uniform.

The stars were beautiful.

That was the earliest thought she could remember, of how brightly, how beautifully, the stars shone in the night sky above her home.

Sometimes she could remember her parents as they held her, staring into the night sky; sometimes she could remember the place that had been their home - but always, always, she remembered that the stars were beautiful.

It had been that love of the stars that had encouraged her to take those first fateful steps into space, her love of their constancy and their ever changing nature that had drawn her back when she thought she would never have the chance to touch them again, her lovely of their beauty, their strength, their subtlety and the immense power that kept calling her back.

The stars were beautiful - even when they shone down upon the open hull of what had once been the bridge of the Orion ship.

Had they encountered a mine? she wondered. A rogue piece of debris that overwhelmed the too-taxed deflectors? Or had one of the ship's jury-rigged systems simply been strained too far and given way in the blast that had rocked the ship?

She didn't know. All she knew was that the top of the ship had been sheared off, leaving the bridge, almost untouched but for missing hull that once covered it, bare, exposed to open space and al its beauty - and its dangers.

The Orion couldn't have survived this, she had known from the first moment she had seen the devastation. If he had been stationed on the bridge, he would have died in the first instant of exposure to space; if he had been elsewhere, he would have died in the rapid expulsion of the ships atmosphere that had followed in the seconds afterward. There would have been no time for him to get into an EV suit, no chance for him to survive this disaster.

She stared at the bridge, the lone chair at the center of the room outlined against the glitter of the stars and space beyond - then turned away.

Nothing here for me, she thought, pushing away the nagging idea of investigating the blast, researching its true cause; research took time, she thought, and it would serve no purpose. Whatever the cause, this ship is finished.

As we will be if I don't find a way off her, she added, her eyes running over the consoles, refusing to allow herself even a moment of grief for the ship that had perished.

Amazingly, the consoles were perfectly intact, their pristine condition and flickering lights adding to the surreal effect of the bridge, open, exposed to space. But some of those lights were flickering green and yellow, a stark contrast to the red ones she had seen in Engineering.

At least there's still some power up here, she thought. Moving to the closest panel, she quickly translated the hodgepodge of languages that marked the indicators, seeing what systems remained.

Weapons, she thought. We could use them to signal a passing ship - if we had sufficient power to use the sensors, use the communications system and fire the weapons.

She inclined her head fractionally, considering the possibility, moving quickly past the other consoles, searching out the one that would show their remaining power reserves.

Translating the values into a scientific notation she understood, she considered - then dismissed the idea.

They could do it - once. But an explosion coming from a minefield that was known to have thousands of undetonated mines might not draw the attention of a passing ship, she thought, at least not beyond some ship's captain murmuring, "Hmpf. Another mine exploded in the Bryona field. Ensign, make a note in the ship's log," and dismissing it - and them - forever more.

And, she added soberly, once that power was gone, their life expectancy would plummet. Use up everything we have in one last attempt, and we'll make it another hour at best. That is, she admitted, if I can get the systems to work.

The gloves in an EV suit were not noted for their sensitivity; the fine detail work needed to make the hundreds - thousands - of repairs would be almost impossible while she was in the suit, and the work that should take half a day might take more than a month.

And we don't have a month, she thought, then glanced at her air reserve monitor.

We don't have an hour, she added.

No, we're going to have to try something else. Something I can do quickly, something that will be noticed, something that won't be written off as a phenomenon of nature or fate, something that would bring help, something that would save her children - should the gods grant them the fortune of a ship passing within distance of rescuing them, she added glumly.

The passage around the Bryona field was relatively well-traveled, she knew - but well-traveled was a relative term considering the immense depths of space. Probably one hundred ships passed through in a year - but that was only one every three days, and there was nothing that required vessels to maintain the same route they had taken.

With my luck, they'll be on the other side when they pass by, she sighed.

But we make our own luck, she reminded herself - and this time, I need to make enough luck for all of us.

She searched out another console, then smiled as she found the one she wanted. Sinking to her knees, she reached beneath it, pulling off the cover, and began to pull out the cables.

And stopped.

Behind the cables, behind the kilometers of fibers that filled the console, she could see the twinkling of stars, gleaming, shining, twinkling at her.

She reached out a gloved hand, touching the tear the ship's hull, then watched as the gap opened a fraction further.

The ship was tearing itself apart, she realized; the blow that had sheared off the top of the bridge hadn't been as neat as she had thought. Instead, it had fractured the vessel, leaving tears and cracks that would, under the assault of the asteroid field that surrounded them and under the inertial stresses of the ship itself, tear them apart.

And then not even the safety of the engineering bay would be able to save them.

She swore, angrily, silently - then began to pull the rest of the cabling out as quickly as she could.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Grinning, Geordi snapped the covering back into place, then rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.

"All right, Data, give that a try," he said confidently.

Sitting on the edge of an examination table, the android extended his right leg, then moved it back and forth several times.

"It appears to be working adequately," he informed his friend.

"Just needed to tweak the timing circuit in the musculo-skeletal servos," Geordi said. "You should be able to get around with minimal problems - but just remember that your current body is new; just as before, you're going to have to let the self-programming circuits make the minor adjustments they made the first time you came on line," he reminded the android. "After all, you can't run before you learn how to walk."

"Actually, Geordi, that statement is at odds with fact," Data pointed out. "The forward momentum gathered from running, in conjunction with the reflexive responses of my neural net to attempt to avoid falling, mean that running is a simpler task than walking - as my results of this morning's evaluation and demonstration proved," he reminded the engineer.

Geordi inclined his head, conceding the point. "Okay, running is easier than walking - but stopping when you're running is harder than stopping when you're walking - also as your evaluation this morning demonstrated," he said with a grin, remembering Data's performance on the treadmill earlier that day, the look of triumph on the android's face as the speed of the platform increased - and the look of utter confusion - and perhaps a degree of panic - as he realized he was unable to slow down.

He had, instead, stopped - suddenly and without warning - and before the treadmill could compensate, the android had been ejected from the machine and thrown against the far wall of the room.

For a moment, he had sat there, no less dazed than a human would have been in similar circumstances - but unlike a human, completely undamaged by the impact.

Still, the moment had sent a wave of terror through Geordi's heart; whatever it was that had brought Data back from being a heap of components to being a sentient being was still beyond his understanding - but if it had been some minute change in his positronic net, it might take nothing more than a fall or a blow to reduce him back to that previous state.

Assuming it _was_, of course, nothing more than a minute change in his neural circuits, he admitted. Not that he had bought into Data's wild idea that he had been called back from the other side by his former lover, he added firmly; he, too had loved Beej, and missed her - but she was gone from their lives - and the sooner that Data came to accept that, the sooner he could get back to leading this new life of his.

Which would be all the sooner once Data regained his former level of mobility.

"Are you all right?" he asked, hurrying over to the far side of the room, trying not to notice the indentations on the wall where Data had impacted the surface, trying not to think what damage might have befallen his friend in the mishap.

"I am undamaged," Data replied after a hesitation so slight it was barely perceptible, "but I believe that the firing sequence of the servos of my right leg is not quite correct. There seems to be a minor imbalance, resulting in an uneven gait," he said, raising himself to his feet - and promptly listing to that side. "And in difficulty maintaining my balance," he added quickly, even as Geordi caught him.

The engineer supported his friend, carefully leading him back to the exam table, then removed the plate that covered the appropriate circuits.

For several hours, the two had worked on the repair, until Geordi was satisfied that the work could be left to the android's equivalent of a cerebellum. In time and with repetition, his motions would grow as smooth and as even as they had been... before... Geordi reminded himself, but for now, Data's body was like that of any young child; capable of movement and deliberate action, but rough, uncoordinated... inelegant, Geordi decided.

Like B-4, Geordi thought, thinking of that being's hesitant, mechanical motions - but unlike B-4, Data could - and would - continue to improve, continue to develop, until he not only reached the level of sophistication he had once possessed, but transcended that point as well.

"For the time being, Data, just don't push yourself," Geordi cautioned. "I've read as much as we could find of Dr. Soongh's notes about you and the other prototypes he developed - and while I know that he wiped your memories about this part of your development, so you don't remember having to go through all this physical 'learning', you did, indeed, go through the process, and now, like then, you're going to have to go through it once more." He managed a smile.

"If nothing else, this will bring you one step closer to being human; humans have to train and coordinate their body's movements; now you have to as well.

"On the positive side," he added with a grin, "you don't have to retrain yourself every time you grow a centimeter or gain a kilo." He shook his head ruefully. "I swear, every time my body changed, I would have to relearn how not to trip over my own feet. I felt bad for the girls in dance class..." he began.

"You studied dance?" Data interrupted, amazed.

Geordi smiled, shaking his head. "Not studied; my mother made me attend Ms. Hedberg's dance class, every Wednesday afternoon for an entire semester when I was ten. I was uncoordinated, graceless - I was a clumsy oaf," he admitted, "and I must have smashed the toes on half the girls I danced with - and they were the lucky ones! The rest ended up falling to the ground when I would trip over my own feet. And at ten years old, you don't appreciate the fact that you're holding a girl in your arms - that's something else that develops with age," he added with a smile.

"You did not like girls when you were a child?" Data questioned, curious.

"I didn't dislike girls, Data, but... When you're ten years old, you think girls have cooties..."

"Cooties?"

"Imaginary germs specific to girls - or boys; girls at that age think boys have cooties as well. The last thing you want is to touch a girl - or a boy, if you're a girl - let alone have to actually hold them!" he told his friend.

"And now?"

Geordi smiled widely. "And now, I don't think girls have cooties - and they're much nicer to touch and hold. And to dance with," he added.

"And Lt. Aramaki is pleasant to hold and touch and dance with?" Data asked.

"Michiko?" Geordi echoed, seemingly surprised - then thought for a moment. "I'd say she's very pleasant to touch and hold - but we haven't gone dancing yet," he admitted, adding that possibility to his mental list of future dates activities.

"More pleasant than Dr. Brahms?" Data pressed.

"Hm? Oh, no, I mean... Data, Leah and I never had a relationship where dancing - or touching or holding - was appropriate. I have no idea what she would be like - not that it's really important in a relationship," he added - then looked at his friend carefully. "Data, why don't you ask me what's really on your mind?" he advised his friend after a moment's consideration.

The android thought for a moment - more for impact, Geordi reminded himself, than out of need; Data's neural net processed a thousand calculations every nanosecond; he had no need to pause or hesitate, except to mimic the mannerisms of those around him.

You may have lost the finesse your body once possessed - but in everything else, you're still our Data, Geordi thought happily - then frowned as Data spoke.

"Geordi, you once said that Dr. Brahms was the woman you idolized - that you loved her. Indeed, you declined many amorous offers from others, seemingly because you would rather wait for Dr. Brahms, rather than permitting a temporary relationship in the interim. Why, then, have you not pursued a relationship with her?" he asked, puzzled. "Or are you still waiting for her?"

"If you're asking if I'm _using_ Michiko - or anyone else that I've dated - then the answer is 'no'," Geordi answered his friend. "Then again, I wouldn't consider my relationship with Michiko to be 'serious', but if that were to develop, in time, I would be very happy." He grew serious, sober, for a moment. "Data, when you... died... I took some time to reevaluate what was important in my life. I thought of all the things you had been to me, and to the others on this ship; you were an integral part of the ship - and of our lives. Losing you was like losing a part of myself - and I know that everyone who was close to you felt the same way," he said quietly.

"But I also came to realize that when I die, no one would feel a loss like that - not that there aren't people on this ship who wouldn't miss me - but... they would get over that loss, Data. In the grand scheme of things, Data, I wasn't really very important to anyone."

He shook his head. "I know that sounds very selfish - and it is. But it forced me to realize that if I wasn't important to someone - anyone - then perhaps it was because I had never made time to allow someone to be that important to me. Except you and the captain and a few of the others," he added hastily.

"I had become so enrapt in being an engineer, Data, that I had stopped seeing myself as anything beyond that - and I finally decided that I wanted more."

"Thus you began to socialize," Data concluded.

"Slowly," Geordi admitted. "You know how I am with others: I'm an engineer, and, in general, we're not good with people outside our field. We'd rather be with an engine than with a friend. Changing that was hard - it took time, but I kept at it; I made some friends - friends who had little to do with engineering, friends who were - and still are - just friends. And some of those friends have been women. And sometimes those friendships have evolved into something more," he added. "Nothing permanent - not yet - but I'm open to that possibility now," he concluded.

"But not with Dr. Brahms?" Data pushed.

"Data, Dr. Brahms was - and still is - a married woman. No matter how you look at it, any relationship I would have with her would be at great personal cost to her. An affair? A divorce? The death of her husband? No, Data," he said with a shake of his head, "all of those would hurt her terribly - and I would never want a relationship based on her - or anyone - having to suffer that kind of pain. If I really loved her, Data, I would never want that for her."

"Then you do not love her?"

Geordi managed a half-laugh. "I was... no, I still am... in love with her - that is, my fantasy of Leah Brahms. But the woman herself? No; I don't love her," he admitted.

The android considered his words for a long time, then nodded. "I believe I understand, Geordi. I would not wish my own happiness to come at the cost of Ginger's pain."

Geordi drew a long breath, displeased by his friend's insistence on bringing their old friend's presence back into the conversation; she's been gone for years! Geordi protested, wondering once again if Data's persistence in clinging to her memory were a sign of some neural aberration.

"I don't think any of us would really want to find personal pleasure through a loved one's pain," a third voice offered.

Startled, Geordi turned - then smiled as Deanna moved toward them, a beatific smile on her face.

"Counselor," he said, rising to his feet.

"Counselor," Data echoes a split second later, also rising - though less gracefully than his human friend.

Deanna seemed not to notice the flawed movement; instead her eyes widened at the motion and a genuine smile crossed her face. "Data! You're up!"

"Geordi finished reconnecting my musculo-skeletal servos this morning - and though I am functional at a basic level, it will be some time before I regain the fluidity of movement I previously possessed," he informed her.

"But the more he moves, the quicker the cortical nodes will reprogram themselves, and the quicker he will relearn," Geordi added. "But you need to take it slow and easy for now," he cautioned his friend.

"Is he up to a walk around the ship?" Deanna asked.

"That's up to him - and you, Counselor," the engineer replied. "I've got to get to a meeting with the captain. We're going to be rendezvousing with the Archer in a few hours to transfer the Kvesterian archaeologists and their gear to the Enterprise - and from what I hear, Professor Femishar is a real bear about having everything done perfectly."

"Kvesterians do have a reputation as being exceptionally obstreperous," Data offered.

"They enjoy arguing for the sake of arguing - aggressively, and by our standards, hurtfully," Deanna countered. "In their society, they believe that one's status is supported by demeaning those around them," she reminded him.

"Bet the captain's going love having them aboard," Geordi replied.

"It will be a challenge of his diplomatic skills," Deanna agreed with a sigh. "Fortunately, they will only be with us for three days - and Professor Femishar will be spending much of that time with the Admiral," she added.

"Still, it's a darned shame that I won't be able to attend the dinner tomorrow evening," Geordi responded with a grin.

"Oh?"

The engineer pointed at Data. "Data's only been on-line a few hours now, Counselor; you wouldn't want me to abandon him at such a critical time, now would you?"

"I believe I would be quite capable of filling that period of time with a non-threatening activity, Geordi," Data began.

The engineer glared at the android - then turned to Deanna who was grinning back. "I'm sure Data will fine on his own, Geordi. Perhaps it would be a good opportunity for him to spend some time with B-4," she added. "It's been some time since you've seen your brother, Data," she reminded him.

"On the contrary, Counselor, from my perspective, it has only been a matter of hours," he countered.

"True - but from his, the time has been far greater," she purred. "Maybe we can talk about B-4 while we're walking," she continued, taking his arm, glancing back at Geordi and getting a nod of approval in return.

The engineer watched the two as they slowly left the room, then gave a worried sigh, wondering, hoping that Deanna would be able to get to the heart of Data's obsession.

I understand that you loved her Data - but she's gone. Maybe not forever, from your point of view - but she is from ours - and we - and you - have got to get on with our lives.

Including, he added a moment later, getting the materials manifest and transporter assignments ready for Captain Riker's meeting.

"Counselor," Data said a few moments later as they walked along a quiet corridor, Deanna's hand wrapped around Data's arm, "based on your remarks, do you feel B-4 has suffered by my absence?"

The empath considered for a moment, then shook her head. "I wouldn't say he's suffered, Data; suffering is an emotional issue, and B-4 doesn't have emotions."

"Perhaps not," Data agreed, "but from my own experience, I know that a sense of familiarity can be gained from repeated exposure to specific stimuli; it may not have been an emotional attachment, but the realization of the termination of that repetition of stimulus was disruptive to my cognitive functions. I am concerned that the lack of my specific stimuli in B-4's life would have damaged him; I am worried that B-4... missed me," he explained.

"In a way, he probably did," she admitted. "He is not good at vocalizing what he feels - if he feels much at all," she added. "However... I don't think he suffered too much. You have to remember, Data, that B-4's cognitive processes are far slower than yours; to achieve the level of familiarity that might result in 'missing you' would probably require a longer period of time in order to ingrain that stimulus.

"Still," she added a moment later, "I think your death did affect him; I know he did not enjoy being alone after that, and whether it was a conscious or sub-conscious act, he managed to place himself, as often as possible, in places where there were others present."

"That may be due to the nature of his prolonged isolation after being deposited on Kolarus III; after being alone for so long, he may have been... lonely." Data hesitated for a moment, then looked at the Betazoid. "I regret that my death may have exacerbated that loneliness," he explained.

She shook her head. "It didn't, Data; loneliness is an emotion - and B-4 doesn't have emotions."

"Counselor, even puppies get lonely," Data countered. "That is why they cry at night; they wish not to be alone, and that is the only way they can express their pain. My brother may have suffered, but unlike those young canines, he does not know how to express his pain, or perhaps even that he is suffering - and thus he would have bear his pain in silence. I did not wish that for him," he said, plaintively.

The hint of anguish in his voice tore at Deanna's soul, and for an instant, she was relieved that her empathic abilities were limited by her baby's development. To feel what Data was suffering at this moment might have helped her to speed his recovery - but it would have been heart-wrenching as well.

"We may never know what, if anything, B-4 felt in those days, Data," she answered, "but I think he realized, fairly quickly, that he wasn't truly been alone. The admiral has been with him both before and after he took formal guardianship - and when he isn't able to physically be there, he tries to arrange for others to do so. Sometimes, of course, that isn't possible, but even so, I think B-4 knows he isn't alone, even when he is by himself," she said gently.

Data thought about her response for a moment, then nodded. "I am grateful to know you think this, Counselor. I will have to express my appreciation to Admiral Picard for his efforts. I will, of course, also have to begin considering what will be done with B-4, now that I am back." He thought for a moment, then stopped, looked at Deanna, and cocked his head to one side. "How does one address a concern like this - a sibling who cannot act independently, and will need a guardian for the remainder of his existence?"

Deanna studied the android for a moment, then sighed, patted his arm and began to walk once more. "Data, you don't know how good it is to have you back. It's not every person who would think those around him at a time like this."

"A time like this?" he repeated, confused.

She grinned. "You've just returned from the dead, Data; it's not something that happens very often, you know. But... it's not unlike situations I've faced when counseling other people who have been absent from their homes for extended and unplanned periods. Do you remember those people we found from the twentieth century, who had been placed in cryogenic storage? Or the crew of the Bozeman, who had been trapped in that recursive time loop that trapped the Enterprise? When I was working with them, their focus was not as much on the effect their absence had had on those around them, but on their own personal losses. You, on the other hand, are asking about your brother," she said.

"My first concerns were for Ginger," he reminded her.

"My point exactly," she answered.

"But to ascertain Ginger's status was akin to the more self-centered issues you mentioned," Data objected. "To know she was safe would be to know my own future is equally secure."

Deanna considered the remark for a moment, stopping to face the android once more. "But you don't know that she is safe, Data; how does that make you feel?"

The android thought for a moment - really thought, Deanna realized after several seconds, not one of his affected hesitations, but a real, very human, consideration of his own feelings at the moment.

Finally, he replied.

"Counselor, you said, several seconds ago, that you have counseled 'other' people in similar circumstances. Does that mean you are now formally counseling me? Am I to be considered your patient?" he asked quietly.

Taken aback by the question, Deanna found herself at a loss for words.

Deny it, she thought, and Data would quickly enough realize she was lying - but to concede the point might be to damage their friendship, she realized equally quickly.

"You've been through quite a lot, Data..." she demurred.

He cocked his head once again. "On the contrary, Counselor; I have been through nothing, but literally and figuratively; I have been 'dead'. It is you and the others who have been enduring the emotional sequelae of my absence," he reminded her.

She nodded. "We did - and still are - and, when I could, I counseled those who needed my help." She considered for a moment. "Sometimes, it was as a patient; I had an obligation to ensure that the command staff was able to function emotionally after your... death," she said. "In that sense, they were my patients. More often, though," she continued, "they were simply my friends, who were hurting, and who simply needed a friendly ear to hear their stories, or a shoulder to cry on."

"I, however, am no longer a member of the command staff," Data pointed out, "nor, apparently, a member of Starfleet," he added, "nor do I require a shoulder upon which to cry. What, then, is the nature of our relationship at this juncture?"

"Can't two old friends just talk, Data?" she asked.

He gave her a searching look. "You are obfuscating, Counselor," he said disapprovingly. "If I may quote Geordi, 'why don't you just tell me what's really on your mind'?"

Deanna hesitated again, trying to think up a different approach to the topic, then sighed and gave up. "Geordi's worried about you, Data," she admitted.

"Worried about me? In what way, Counselor?" the android countered.

She hesitated again, then while the professional approach might allow some leeway in the topic, their friendship would not - and, after four years of absence, she did not want to lose Data from her life once again.

"He's concerned about your ideas about why you came back on line so suddenly, Data," she admitted. "He's concerned because you appear to be obsessing about Dee. He's concerned because... because these are not behaviors you used to exhibit, Data," she said.

"He is concerned because my remarks are emotionally driven, rather than relying on logic and reason as their basis," Data concluded.

Deanna nodded. "Geordi felt that this change in your personality may because there is a fundamental problem with your neural net, causing you to behave as you are."

The android considered the idea for a moment, then nodded. "I believe I understand, Counselor; Geordi is worried... that he has made an error. That I am behaving as I am because he has made a mistake in his reconstruction of my systems - and this is causing me to act as I am; that this error will lead to my eventual demise, much as it led to the death of my daughter, Lal, and that he will be to blame."

"Yes," she agreed, "at least to a degree. But he is genuinely worried about you, Data," she added hastily.

"I know," Data agreed. "I was not suggesting he was attempting to deflect responsibility should my systems fail. But I think perhaps he - and you, and the others - have failed to consider the possibility that I am functioning as I should."

Despite the intensity of the moment, Deanna found a smile coming to her face. "Data, you never behaved like this before," she pointed out.

"No - but who is to say that my behavior in my previous existence was what was intended?" he pointed out. "Dr. Soongh abandoned me in an incomplete state; we know that he had intended the implantation of an emotion chip, but had not done so yet; why can we not assume that other alterations were being developed as well? Indeed, I know from experience that some matters of personal development were implanted in such a manner as to not be available until certain criteria were met," he added.

Deanna frowned. "Personal development? Such as...?"

"Self-confidence, for example," Data said. "That was an attribute that Dr. Soongh could have implanted - as we know from Lore's personality - but chose not to, allowing it to develop of its own accord, and with the assistance of you, Counselor, the captain, Dr. Crusher, and others and in conjunction with my life experiences."

"A good point," she agreed.

"Similarly," he continued, "while I was sexually functional, I was not able to achieve an orgasm until after I realized I had fallen in love with Andile - another self-actualizing sequence for personal development implanted by Dr. Soongh, but left to develop through life experience."

"Indeed," she replied.

"Thus it is possible that Geordi's reconstruction of me, from Dr. Soongh's notes, which included many years of additional research, may have rendered me closer to what was intended than my first incarnation did," he decided.

She nodded. "That may be, Data, but how are we to know which one is right?"

"It is not a question of which version of me is right - or wrong," he replied. "Perhaps neither is exactly as my creator intended it to be - but it is the being I am, just as you are the being you are, even though, if memory serves, your mother is not always happy about the choices you have made, or the being you have become. You are not as she envisioned."

Deanna sighed. "No, I'm not," she agreed.

"But this does not mean you are in need of counseling to correct this developmental issue, does it?" he pressed.

"Data, that isn't the same situation..." she began to protest.

He raised a finger, interrupting her in mid-remark. Looking at the woman's burgeoning belly, he studied it, then raised his eyes to hers. "Counselor, if I may be so bold... You have aspirations for this child you are carrying, hopes and anticipations for the type of person he or she will be. Should that child turn out differently than you plan, would you deem the child irrational, and seek counseling or some other form of correction for him or her?"

"If their behavior was endangering themselves or others, yes, of course," she replied quickly.

"But if it simply was not the behavior you anticipated?" he pressed.

Deanna stopped, studying the android for a moment, then lowered her hand to the swell of her abdomen. "I... I want my child to be happy and healthy, Data," she said.

"Though I do not require health, per se, Counselor, I wish the same things for this life of mine - that I be happy," he replied. "I believe I know how that happiness will be acquired - with Ginger as a part of my life. Do you find that belief obsessive or irrational?" he pressed.

"No - but the idea that the moment your systems came on line was because of some external, unknown force..." she reminded him.

Data cocked his head. "And when your child is born, you will be able to tell him or her why the act of conception that created life for him was different from the same act you had performed a day before or a hour before - or a month before?" he asked.

She studied him a moment longer, then shook her head again. "No. There's no way to know why this time was the 'right' time, and the others weren't. We're just happy that it happened."

"Then perhaps we should accept that my re-animation was also simply 'the right time', Data suggested.

"Data, it's not the same thing," she protested.

"Indeed? How do you know this?" he asked.

She stared at him, then gave a frustrated sigh, knowing this was an argument that could not be won - by either of them. Taking his arm once again, she began to walk, thinking for a long time before speaking. "Data, I've often counseled people who are facing changes - both difficult and pleasurable changes - that things often happen in our lives for a reason. We may not see what those reasons are, because the reason - the outcome - is in our future, while we are facing the changes in our present. But, in a way, it's much like what you told Geordi; you came back at the moment you did - the 'right time' - for a reason we don't fully understand yet.

"For Geordi, however, there needs to be technological reason, in order for it to fit in with his mindset as an engineer; you need it to be because of Dee, because of your feelings for her. Who knows if either of you are right - or if neither of you are?" she said. "And in the end, perhaps it doesn't matter.

"But in either case, I'm very happy you're back," she added, squeezing his arm gently.

"As am I," he concurred.

"Having said that, however, I think that counseling is not a bad idea," she continued. "Whatever changes Geordi may have created in following Dr. Soongh's notes, your memories are based on an older system. Integrating those two may pose some challenges and some possibilities. I'd like to help you explore the potential your life offers you," she said.

"I believe, Counselor, that would be prudent," Data replied.

"Deanna, Data; my name is Deanna," she said gently.

"I was aware of that, Counselor," he replied, a little perplexed by her protestation.

"Yes, but you - the you that you were - never used my name," she said.

"Such informality would have been inappropriate between fellow officers," he reminded her.

"You called Geordi by his name," she countered.

"Yes, but Geordi was my..." He stopped, the point registering in his mind - and a look of shame crossing his face. "I see. I am sorry; I did not realize I had injured your feelings by the use of your title rather than a personal appellation during our previous times together," he said.

She gave him a warm and gentle smile in return. "You didn't hurt my feelings, Data; as you said, that was the being that you were. But I would like this being - you - to call me by my name - if you feel comfortable in doing so."

"Would that be advisable?" he asked concernedly. "Even though I am not currently a member of Starfleet, it might damage our patient/counselor relationship."

"Then perhaps we should let this relationship be a personal one instead - if that's all right with you," she added.

He considered for a moment - a long moment - before speaking. "I would like that - provided that you are cognizant that should I 'cry on your shoulder', the lubricant generated through my tear ducts can leave stains on some types of clothing."

Deanna looked at him in surprise. "Data, was that a joke?" she asked.

He frowned, concerned. "I intended as such, in an attempt to deflect the emotional import of the moment. Was it humorous?" he asked worriedly.

"Well," she said with a smile, "let's just say that some things in this persona haven't changed.

"However, some things in _this_ persona," she patted her belly, "have changed. Junior wants lunch. What would you say to continuing this conversation in Ten Forward?" she asked.

"That would be acceptable," he said - then looked at her waist. "You utilized the designation, 'Junior'; have you then determined the child's gender to be male?" he asked.

"No - but I'll be happy to tell you everything else about him - or her - just as soon as we get to Ten Forward. Believe me, when Junior decides it's time to eat, we eat, or everyone suffers," she explained.

Data nodded. "Indeed. Geordi had said you had become somewhat 'cranky' as a result of this pregnancy," he agreed.

Deanna raised a brow. "Did he now?" she said. "Well, I'll have to have a word with Mr. LaForge about my crankiness - but after lunch," she added, taking his arm, and gesturing toward the lift. "Shall we?"


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Admiral Jean-Luc Picard reached forward, adjusted the shirt of the man that stood before him, then stepped back, making another careful appraisal.

The shirt was still slightly askew, he decided, stepping forward to make another adjustment - then stopped himself.

I'm fussing, he told himself; fussing like an old mother hen. B-4 looks fine, he told himself, giving the android one final inspection - and catching himself even as he started to make another adjustment.

No, the android's loose-fitting shirt and tailored trousers weren't hanging exactly as he might have wanted - but B-4 was not a fashion plate - and clothes did not make the man, he reminded himself - or the android, he added with a smile.

Still, he thought, he wanted B-4's reunion with his brother to be on the best possible terms - and that included making sure B-4's appearance was the best possible. Hence, he had opted for the android to change from his usual utilitarian jumpsuit into this more formal attire - even though B-4 could not possibly fathom the reason for the change - nor did he care.

Nor would Data, Picard reminded himself; all Data would care about was seeing his brother, seeing that he was well and well cared for - so why am I concerned? he wondered.

Because, he admitted a moment later, Data would care. Oh, perhaps not about B-4's appearance - at least not directly - but B-4's outward appearance would be the first indicator about the quality of care the android had been given in the last four years - and he wanted Data's first impression of B-4 to be the best one possible.

Despite himself, he gave the android one more appraising look, reached forward and made one last adjustment to the shirt, then sighed, wondering.

Could I have done better? he asked himself. Could I have spent more time with B-4, could I have done more to try to enhance his programming, could I have interacted more with him, trying to further stretch the capabilities of his positronic net? Could I have done more?

Yes, of course I could have, he chided himself instantly - then relented, remembering having these same questions - and these same doubts - when he had raised his children on Kataan - and knowing every parent asked themselves these same questions.

He smiled to himself as the thought registered. Of course I'm anxious, he realized; for the last four years I've been B-4's parent - and for the first time, I'm about to come face-to-face with the one person who can - and will - judge my performance in that task.

Or rather, he amended, one of the people; in time, he thought, B-4 may achieve that degree of sentience where he can understand his existence, and understand what we've - I've - done to help him along the path.

At least I hope he'll be able to understand that existence, he added, studying the android, searching that near-blank expression for some hint of the humanity that had blossomed in his sibling - and seeing nothing.

You're not Data, he reminded himself; you have every memory he had - and yet those human attributes never manifested themselves in you as they did in Data, he sighed emptily. Will they ever? he asked himself; will you ever be able to understand yourself - or even what's going on in the world around you? he wondered.

He studied the android for a moment, the said, "B-4, you understand what I've told you about Data?"

"That he was dead, but is no longer," the android answered flatly.

"Yes," Picard said hesitantly, uncertain if the being could fully grasp the enormity of the events that had transpired - then deciding that degree of innocence may not be a terrible thing.

B-4 was quiet a moment longer, then cocked his head to look at Picard. "Will my brother die again?"

Picard raised a brow at the unexpected question, startled by its unexpected depth - and wondering once more just how much of B-4's mental abilities they understood, and how much lay behind their grasp.

"Yes. In time," Picard answered after a long moment. "In time we will all die," he added quietly. "But... for beings like yourself and Data, it seems that as long as your memories are available, and the materials are available to recreate your physical bodies, death may not be final," he said.

"But your death will be... final?" B-4 asked.

Picard nodded. "Yes."

"I do not wish that to happen," the android replied, a hint of unhappiness tinting his voice.

"I'm not looking forward to it either," Picard replied with a smile. "But it is the way of all organic creatures," he added - then recognized the pain in B-4's voice, remembering that same tone in his own children's voices the first time they realized that their lives were finite. "But," he added quickly, trying to reassure the being, "it's not something that going to happen soon - at least, not if I have anything to say about it. And... just as Data lived on in your memories," he continued quietly, "even after his body was gone, I - and everyone else you meet and come to know - will live on in your memories. Being remembered, B-4, is how humans - and most organic beings - achieve immortality - or as close to it as we can come."

B-4 looked at Picard emptily, vacuously - then said quietly, "I will not forget you, Admiral."

Startled, Picard gaped at the man, wondering, once more, how much more there was to the android than he - or anyone - had ever realized - then smiled with genuine affection at the man. "Thank you - but I don't think you need to relegate me to your memory files quite yet, B-4."

"Then... I am not to reside with Data?" he asked.

Picard raised a brow, taken aback once again by android's unexpected awareness - then shook his head hesitantly. "No. That is," he admitted slowly, "I don't know. To be honest, B-4, I hadn't given it much thought. I assumed..."

Assumed what? he asked himself. That Data would return to Starfleet - and not be in a position to take on the responsibility of watching over B-4? That he might not be capable of that responsibility? he wondered. That he might not want to watch over his brother?

"I assumed," he said at long last, "that everything would continue as it is. But... you are correct; your situation may be subject to change. But if that happens, please know that you will be involved in making the decision about your future," he told the man. "As soon as I'm back from this trip, you and I and Data will sit down and discuss it."

The sound of the annunciator startled the man, bringing a fresh wash of apprehension to the human - apprehension he needn't feel, he reminded himself quickly; he had done as best he could - and sometimes that was all a parent could say about their efforts.

Clapping a hand to the android's shoulder in unnecessary reassurance, he gently turned the being around, facing him toward the doors to his temporary quarters, then stepped forward and touched the door pad.

The doors opened with a soft _shush_, revealing...

Data stood in the entryway, looking into the room, his eyes seeing both of the two figures in the doorway - but his awareness locked on the mirror-image that confronted him.

For a long time the two were silent, then Data quietly spoke.

"B-4," he said.

"Brother," B-4 replied, his voice equally quiet, if somewhat flatter.

The two fell silent once again - then Picard, anxious to break the awkward silence, spoke up. "Please come in, Data - and you, Counselor," he added, finally noticing the Betazoid standing just behind the android.

Deanna smiled, then, taking Data by the arm, gently coaxed him into the room. "Don't worry, Data; he's not going to bite."

Data nodded - but still, he kept his distance from the other android.

B-4, Picard thought, didn't look any more comfortable at the meeting than did his brother.

The two stared at the other for a long moment, then B-4 finally said, "The Admiral said you were my brother - but my brother looked like me. You do not look like me," he said, almost accusingly.

"B-4, we've discussed this..." Picard began, surprised at the android's comment, having explained in detail the changes that Geordi had wrought to Data's external appearance - but Deanna silenced him with a soft touch on his arm.

"Admiral, they need to work this out on their own," she said quietly. "Remember that while B-4 has a greater capacity of knowledge and information than you or I ever will, he processes that information at a child-like level. While you may have explained everything about Data's recreation - and all of the changes Geordi has incorporated into that body - B-4 needs to come to terms with that information on his own level. Let them talk this through - and afterwards, I'm sure B-4 will have more questions that he'll want to discuss - with you," she added, smiling reassuringly at the man.

Picard looked back at the empath. "I appreciate your concern, Counselor - but you needn't worry; my ego is quite intact," he said, quickly dismissing her concerns.

Or rather, trying to dismiss them. "Of course, sir," she countered - but her hand remained where she had placed it, and neither saw fit to remove it.

"Commander LaForge was able to implement several ideas that our creator, Dr. Noonian Soongh, had detailed in his research notes, but had not been able to implement prior to his death," Data was explaining. "These included a variable skin pigment in the epithelial layer, which will allow for a more human-like skin tone. In addition, there are photo-reactive compounds that will alter that pigment in response to sunlight, or the lack thereof."

B-4 cocked his head. "Your face has lines," he said, then looked at Picard. "Your face has lines," he added.

"Wrinkles," Picard corrected his charge.

"Wrinkles," B-4 repeated, then looked back to his sibling. "Your face has wrinkles," he told Data. "Your other face did not have wrinkles."

Data gave a single nod. "You are correct. Geordi has also added other changes to my outward appearance that will conform to those expected in humans, including wrinkles, blemishes, age spots..."

"Why?" B-4 interrupted.

"Because as humans age, they display these elements; they will expect to see them in those around them. Failure to see these attributes - and the other signs of aging - in other members of a society will serve to create a rift between the individuals who display the artifacts of age and those who do not."

"Why?" B-4 repeated.

"Because humans prefer that those around them to display an appearance akin to their own," Data answered.

"Why?" B-4 said again.

Data frowned, as though his explanation should have made the rationale evident to his brother, then opened his mouth to try to explain once more - but Picard stepped forward, raising a hand to silence him as he turned to face the more simpler android,

"B-4, people do not wish to be reminded that they are aging, even when they are," he said. "Constantly being confronted by someone, human or otherwise, that doesn't appear to age even as they do, is a painful reminder of their own mortality - and they will distance themselves from the source of that discomfort. Taking on the artifacts of aging helps to remove that barrier," he explained.

"They do not wish to know that they will die," B-4 replied.

Picard hesitated. "Not quite; we all know we will die, B-4, but people, at least humans, aren't comfortable with being frequently reminded of soon that end will come - at least not when they know others around them will have a far greater lifespan," he said.

"By appearing more like those around me, I will be more readily accepted into the society in which I place myself," Data finished.

As though it had been his appearance that had slowed his assimilation into the society and culture that surrounded Starfleet, Picard thought with a smile, Even now, with Geordi's work on creating a more nature tone to Data's flesh, the careful design of small lines around the android's mouth and eyes and the occasional grey hair interspersed among the otherwise black ones, there was still something very... alien... about the human-looking being.

"Of course," Deanna interjected, sensing Picard's mirth at the android's naivéte, "appearance is not the only factor which determines whether someone fits into a society or does not, but is one of the easiest to affect. When humans don't see an outward difference between themselves and those around them, they are more likely to assume that there are other similarities as well and they can more readily incorporate that person into their culture," she explained.

"Geordi informs me that these changes can be applied to your epithelial layers as well," Data said.

B-4 looked at Picard, a blank expression on his face - but with a glint of something shining in his eyes.

On a technical level, Picard knew that B-4 had no ability to feel emotions, that whatever mechanical component that had given Data - and Lore - that ability had not been invented when B-4 was first built. But somewhere, somehow during the last four years, he had developed the ability to display - and probably feel - some vestige of those emotional expressions.

A remnant of Data's personality download? he had wondered each time he saw that trace of feeling in the being's eyes - or could it be something more basic, as it had been with Data: an expression of the detritus of his experiences that defied the established patterns of his programming?

Was B-4, like Data before him, just too complex of a creature not to have emotions - even if he had not been given a way to categorize, define and experience them? Picard wondered.

For a moment, angered welled up in Picard; anger at Noonian Soongh for having created a being of such complexity - and not having taken the care to ensure that that being wasn't abandoned, left to be found, reprogrammed - and deserted once more.

You don't create a life then just abandon it! he railed angrily - then checked himself. For all he knew, Soongh had taken adequate precautions with B-4 to see that he was inactivated and safely stored; that Shinzon had found and used the android for his own purposed spoke only to that person's deviousness - and lack of regard for life.

Had B-4 felt fear or loneliness on the desert world? Picard wondered. Was that glint of terror in his eyes a relic of the days he lay dismembered and abandoned on that world - or was it somehow a gift from the world to which Picard had brought him.

Whatever their source, Picard was not about to let his charge suffer.

"You can make those changes if you want them, B-4," Picard said with quiet calm, but only if you want them. Think about it - but know that no one will force you to make a change that you don't want," he added.

Deanna looked at him, a curious expression in her eyes - then turned away, glancing at the chronometer mounted near the door control. "Admiral, we should be going. Professor Femishar is scheduled to beam aboard in a few minutes - and Data and B-4 have much to discuss. I'm sure they'll be fine," she added.

Picard looked at her, knowing she was right - then looked back at the two androids, uncertain once again.

"You need to have a little faith, Admiral," Deanna said, then gently pulled on the arm she was still holding.

He followed, albeit with more than a trace of reluctance - but as it had throughout his life, duty called.

"I thought this mission was about pleasure, Admiral, not duty," Deanna said lightly.

He frowned at her. "I thought your... condition... made it impossible for you to read other people's emotions, Counselor," he said, glancing at her abdomen.

She smiled. "Not impossible - but difficult, and what I do perceive is, as often as not, inaccurate."

"Then...?" he pressed as they moved down the corridor.

"Sir, I was your counselor for more than fifteen years - and you were not an easy subject to read on the best of days; I learned long ago that if I was going to be a proper counselor to you, I was going to have to learn other ways to sense your emotional status," she explained.

"And...?"

"And I know you aren't looking forward to meeting with Professor Femishar," she said, then stopped and looked at him appraisingly. "I thought you were looking forward to this dig, sir," she said. "You've been talking about it for some time..."

"And I was looking forward to it," he said. "I still am," he amended. "But..." He looked at her. "You haven't met Femishar yet, have you? Or any Kvesterians?"

She shook her head. "I know the Kvesterian people can be... difficult..."

"That is an understatement," Picard agreed. "Their society is extremely stratified - and anyone who isn't on your social level is treated with utter contempt. It's not hierarchical," he added instantly. "It's not a matter of a higher class looking down on the lower classes - but everyone looking down on each other. That goes doubly for alien races.

"The Federation has been in negotiations with the Kvesterians for more than one hundred years, attempting to secure their entrance to the Federation - but the Kvesterians have had little interest in joining; to do so would be to suggest that they were at the same level as those races that make up the Federation - something that they cannot and will not do."

"If they aren't interested, then why has the Federation been pursuing them as new members?" she asked.

"Proforma, to a degree," Picard admitted. "The Federation would rather that non-aligned worlds see us in a more favorable light than, say, the Romulans or the Klingons, so we continue to pursue their alliance."

"Then it sounds that our attempts to have them join have been half-hearted," she answered.

"They were - until the Kvesterians made what may be the archaeological find of the millennia," Picard replied.

"Oh?"

"Femishar has found remnants of what he believes is the first neo-Romulan civilization," Picard explained.

"I don't understand," Deanna admitted. "I thought that Romulus and Remus..."

"Are the current locations of the Romulan people - but Femishar believes that at least one of the ships that left Vulcan in the diaspora may have gone astray - and this colony was the result," Picard said.

"I see," Deanna said.

Picard shook his head. "No, you don't. The artifacts that Femishar claims to have found are of the most rudimentary level. If he's right, and this is a Romulan post-diaspora culture, it would suggest their civilization - a civilization that achieved FTL space travel - collapsed almost upon being founded - or worse, a civilization never established itself. Either way, if Femishar is correct, the Romulans are going to be outraged. Their sense of self is almost as strong as the Kvesterians is; they will not take this insult lightly nor easily - and it will move to the forefront of the political agenda."

"Ahead of the treaty?" Deanna asked.

Picard nodded. "The only good thing that may come of this is that the Romulan government will be able to unify itself and the Romulan people behind this single cause - something they've lacked since the Reman rebellion. Unfortunately, that unity will be at the cost of an alliance to anyone else."

"Fortunately, Samarassia IV is in Federation space; the Kvesterians had to negotiate with the Archeology Council in order to secure a permit for the dig..."

"... and they negotiated for your presence on the dig," Deanna concluded.

"Something the Federation could not have done had the Kvesterians been full members of the Federation. But even as guests, my role will be as a participant, only," he said. "I'm not there to monitor their findings, edit their conclusions or cast any doubts on their methodology," he said.

"Then as what?" she pressed.

"Officially, as nothing more than a guest - a rank amateur, whose presence is being tolerated by the Kvesterians as a gracious 'thank you' given for the dig permits. Unofficially, however, I'll be inspecting the site prior to the dig, review the initial ground scans and noting the site should any artifacts or fragments that those scans reveal. Should something... untoward... suddenly appear or a find not correspond to those initial scans, there will be reason to suspect the legitimacy of the dig."

"Then the Council thinks that the Kvesterians might have been bribed by the Klingons or the Cardassians to 'find' something that wasn't from the site - something that might reflect badly on the Romulans?" Deanna asked.

"No; Femishar and his people are not interested in the political ramifications of their find - and their cultural pride would prevent them from accepting a bribe from an alien race; they would find that to be insulting beyond belief," he explained.

"Then...?"

"Femishar's methodology is... suspect," he said. "Science on Kvestar uses a different approach than we do; rather than collecting a reasonable amount of data and positing a theory based on their findings, they begin with the theory, then collect evidence to support it. Evidence that contradicts that theory rarely sees the light of day - and while neither I nor the Archaeology Council will subvert their findings should they support Femishar's theory, neither can we permit any contradictory evidence to conveniently 'disappear'," he said. "If Femishar's theory is correct, he's going to have to prove it - but using our standards, not his," Picard explained. "Anything less and the Romulans will be able - and quite rightly - to dismiss his findings as meaningless."

Deanna raised a brow. "And you wanted Beverly to spend three weeks with you playing supervisor for Femishar and his group?" she asked, surprised.

And was doubly surprised when he smiled back. With a shake of his head, he spoke. "No. I wouldn't do that to her - or to anyone. My review of the initial scans will be done between today and when we reach Samarassia IV; once we beam down, we'll perform another set of scans and lay out the excavation grids - but after that, I've been _politely_ uninvited from the dig. The Kvesterians work in a tight knit unit, and the presence of an outsider would be detrimental to the proper function of that team.

"At that point, I'll be leaving to pursue my own investigation - a survey of a gravitic anomaly, not unlike those found on several other planets purported to be colonized by the Progenitors. Dwellings, small towns and villages on planets which have yet to show a clear line of evolution which would terminate in lifeforms capable of building such areas," he said, his enthusiasm growing quickly. "That was that portion of trip that I had hoped to spend with Beverly," he admitted.

"You sound quite excited about the idea," Deanna commented.

"I am," he agreed. "I had noted the finding in the first survey records on Samarassia IV - done over a century ago - and noted the similarity to those other gravitic anomalies, but to date either no one else has noted it, or more likely, they've dismissed it as just an anomaly. Such anomalies aren't uncommon, of course," he added, "and the Federation Archaeology Council isn't about to grant a survey permit based on a gut feeling. So, to a degree, I'm using Femishar as much as he is using the Federation; while the Archaeology Council was not willing to grant me a permit on my own, they were willing to give me one - providing, of course, that I review the scans and make sure Femishar isn't playing fast and loose with whatever data he does find."

He stopped speaking for a moment, then looked at Deanna. "Of course, the work will be challenging and the trek through the rainforest and plains will be arduous. To be honest, I'm not all that surprised that Beverly begged off," he said. "Hardly a vacation for her. Then again, five weeks alone on an empty planet isn't an ideal vacation for me, either," he murmured. "I was considering having B-4 accompany me," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Oh?" she asked. "Do you think he would enjoy it?"

He gave the Betazoid a caustic look then sighed wearily. "I really hate it when you do that," he told her.

She grinned. "I know, Admiral," she said, then fell silent for a moment. "Nonetheless, as I said before, you have to have a little more faith," she said a few seconds later.

"Pardon?"

"In yourself, Admiral," she clarified.

"I don't understand," he said.

"Yes, you do. You've done an exceptional job caring for B-4, Admiral," she replied. "You don't see it because you're with him every day - but he has grown and developed. He's more aware, more able to process information independently - he has emotions... You've always been an excellent leader for your crews, sir, helping them to develop and grow into better, stronger officers - but you've also always known the criteria by which they will be judged.

"The situation here is different; you've helped B-4 become a better, stronger, more developed person - but the criteria that Data - or anyone - will use to assess your work is unknown - and," she said hesitantly, "I sense that you're... afraid. Concerned that you'll be found wanting," she added.

"But you don't need to be, sir; you don't need to worry that Data is going to find some fault with the way you've cared for B-4. You don't need to hide him away," Deanna said. "You don't need to worry that Data is going to take him away from you," she added sympathetically.

He bristled at her words. "I beg your pardon?"

She gave him an understanding look - a look that understood him far better than he cared to be understood. "Whether you want to admit it or not, Captain, you've grown fond of your role with B-4; father, mentor, guardian - whatever you want to call it, you've both grown because of your time together - and you don't want to see that end. I'm sure Data will see that as well - and if he doesn't..."

Picard stiffened. "Counselor, B-4's fate is his own," he said coldly. "I will let him know that if he chooses to stay with me, he will always be welcome - but my goal - one of my goals - has been to help him develop his ability to make sound decisions for himself. Whatever B-4 chooses - not what I want, not what Data wants - but whatever B-4 desires for himself, I will support him in that decision," he said adamantly.

Deanna studied the man for a long time, then nodded. "Of course, sir."

They stopped at the entrance to one of the lifts, waiting for the doors to open, then stepped inside. For a time they rode in silence, then Deanna turned to him.

"You would have been a wonderful father, sir," she said quietly.

He looked back, a part of him wanting to take umbrage at the impingement into his personal life - and part of him understanding the remark for the compliment it was.

Picard studied the woman beside him, glancing at the swell of her waist, the growing curve that, in a few short months, would become her first child - and his first godchild - and managed a smile.

"Thank you... Deanna," he answered quietly. "And... Over the last few years, I've come to realize that my life has been a good one - but there are some things I do regret - and the greatest one is that I never married or had a family. But I came to that realization far too late in life - and some things just weren't meant to be," he said.

"There's still time, Admiral," she reminded him.

"No," he answered. "Not for me," he repeated - then looked at the woman beside him - and smiled reassuringly. "But I'll be more than content knowing that I've done the best I can for B-4 - and for my godchild," he told her.

He fell silent, his eyes locked on the door before them, letting the pangs of fear and loss - and age - wash over him once more.

I would have liked something more as well, Counselor - but some things just weren't meant to be.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"Okay. That should do it," she said quietly, twisting the last of the cables together, then aimed the phase welder at the joins and touched the control button, adding a silent prayer as she did so; the gods knew that the connections weren't up to her usual standards - but you do what you can with what you have, she reminded herself - and what I have is shit.

But I've done more with less, she told herself - but never for so important a reason. If I have to go and hold every patch together with my hands, I'll do it.

"Mes te ka?" S'bey murmured.

"Got me hanging," she replied. "The ship is a piece of crap; half the fibers have degraded into dust, the other half were made from the cheapest repair-grade fiber the captain could have found... How this ship managed to hang together as long as she did is beyond me; whether this makeshift comm system is going to work is an equally big question. I know every connection is patent - but whether or not our signal is going to reach the transmitter is another matter - and I have no way of knowing whether that transmitter is still working or how strong the signal will be," she admitted.

"Ee-est tami kotai ika tu?" he asked curiously.

"We _won't_ know if it's working," she answered, "but it's the best I can do, S'bey - unless you have a better idea," she added, her mind open to accept any other options.

Unfortunately, all he could offer was a shake of his head.

"Yeah, I know," she sighed. "It's not much - but it's all we've got. Then we'll proceed as planned," she continued a moment later, "We'll repeat the message in Standard Federation, Cardassian, Klingon, Borshenian, Romulan..."

"Mestka igh ligato ma: 'Kit tam'?"

Despite the situation they found themselves in, she grinned. "As a rule, the standard SOS call is not, 'We're fucked', though it certainly would get some points for originality," she replied. "No. we'll just give announce our approximate location, the ship's status, and beg for help. We'll take turns, and go on as long as we can, until either our voices give out..."

"Ozy metaku oxygen," he finished.

"Or the hull ruptures or life support fails," she added. "There are lots of ways to die in space, S'bey. None are nice - but they're all fast - and they," she said, nodding at the children now sprawled out on the mattresses and thick pads she had recovered from the remains of the ship, covered in blankets, coats, bed linens - everything she could salvage that might help them stay warm as the ship's systems gradually began to fail, "will never know what hit them. Amazing what a full tummy and a warm bed can do to ease your fears," she said.

"Miizi tocola," he countered. "Eseem, sima toa colpkvitn."

She shook her head. "If they were adults, yes, I might agree - but those children have spent their short lives facing death every moment of every day; I would like their last few hours to be spent free of that worry - and if it means filling their stomachs and giving them a warm place to sleep, then so be it," she said firmly.

"O, lipa, kiiupa stat miket lita vu," he answered.

"No, you're not an adult either, my dear," she replied soberly, "and if you would prefer to sleep away the next few hours, then I won't stop you. But I do think of you as an equal," she continued, reaching for his hand, squeezing it gently. "I would grant you the right to face your death, awake and aware. It's up to you, of course," she added.

He met her gaze. "Huto, jitu' metsa etupury, mes ta?"

"No, you've never left me alone before," she agreed softly. "I didn't think you'd start now." She looked down, then raised her head. "I'm sorry, my dear; if I'd known what this was going to lead to, I never would have asked you to join me," she told him. "I thought..."

"Uttrat mes tayoup kano vi," he said.

"Yes. I thought I was going to save you - and I'm still going to try," she added defiantly, reaching for the makeshift microphone of the patched-together communications system - then gave an involuntary shiver.

Tension, she thought - then felt another shiver pass over her.

She looked at the young man. "It's getting colder, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"Life support's failing - or the hull rupture has moved closer," she said. "I'm guessing it's the latter - but either way, time's running out. What have we got left in phasers?" she asked.

He pointed at the pile of remaining weapons, adding, "Kematasna pactu. Sect ta me, secta vu sami; mestac secta esiamu, jeanna mwai, fuckhead," he concluded.

She sighed, wishing she had been able to break the young man of his habit of swearing with every other sentence - and instead having wound up teach him an entirely new vocabulary of profanity. "S'bey, S'bey," she muttered, "what am I going to do with you? Didn't I teach you that swearing sounds like hell?"

He grinned at her, utterly unrepentant.

"Well, if I can't teach you manners, at least let me teach you respect. Let's remember that our late skipper earned his position and the rank that came with it, so please give him what he's due, and call him by his earned title: it's _Captain_ Fuckhead," she advised him.

He inclined his head in acceptance of the reprimand.

"So we've got a half dozen phasers left, none with a full charge - and yes, he was a fuckhead not to keep his weapons charged - but that is the least of the complaints I have towards our late ship's captain. Put one phaser aside to keep this area warm; if we get cold, we'll drift off - and whatever chance we have to be rescued will disappear. But let's use the others to keep the children as warm as possible as long as possible; if we have to, we'll move them closer to the reactor to keep them warm," she said.

"Beshta tame mazy, vumata ki," he said.

She considered his words, then nodded. "You're right; it'll be easier to keep them warm than to try to warm them up later - and the gods help us if they wake up and we have to try to get them back to sleep." She start to push herself to her feet, only to feel S'bey's hand on her arm, pulling her back.

"Vek ta usemitki, O jogh meskitop hesa mu," he said.

She nodded again. "Fine. You move them, I'll start broadcasting. But try to keep Mshara and Usmet as far from the reactor as possible," she added.

He looked at her, rolled his eyes, then shook his head, his meaning unmistakable.

"Sorry; I'm preaching to the choir again," she apologized. "You know what to do," she said, then turned away, reaching for the makeshift microphone.

"To all vessels hearing this message," she said calmly, controlling her voice and her emotions lest either disturb the children sleeping only a few yards away, "this is the Orion vessel Mahkto; we are declaring an emergency. We have been struck by a mine in the Bryona minefield; our ship has been severely damaged. Our hull is ruptured, life support is failing; we estimate nine hours before life support fails. There are thirty-six survivors. Do not respond to this message; we have outbound communications only. Please send help.

"Repeating..."

She recited the message again, then shifted to Klingon, deciding that S'bey could and should handle the Cardassian portion of the message; maybe a passing ship, hearing that familiar accent might be more inclined to help them, she thought.

If a ship was passing, she added - and if they were willing to broach the very active minefield in what was probably a pointless attempt to save a bunch of strangers without even the possibility of salvage to offset their costs.

Of course, they could always take them prisoner, and sell them as slave labor on one of the more distant, unaffiliated worlds, she added glumly. That wasn't what I promised these children, she thought - but I can always rescue them again, if I have to, she reminded herself.

But even slavers aren't going to be keen on running the Bryona field unless they were damned sure there was a profit to be made for their efforts, she thought - which is why I didn't bother to run this message in Ferengi; there was nothing valuable enough - not even a ship of gold pressed latinum - that could induce them to run the field in an attempt to rescue the ship.

Which left their rescue to the Federation, the Klingons, and a few of the local races that possessed a touch of altruism - and the odds of any of them coming near enough to the field to hear their signal was infinitesimally small.

A hand on her shoulder interrupted her worried thoughts, and she looked up to see her young friend staring at her, his eyes equally troubled.

"Cumatsuio esseno tekq wa, cume ets, Komiada?" he said softly.

She opened her mouth to give him the answer - then stopped and considered.

I just told you that you were adult enough to face the consequences of what had happened, awake and alert - and now I would lie to him? she asked herself. How can I give you the truth and false hope in the same moment?

"No," she admitted quietly. "We're not going to be rescued. The space lanes around the Bryona field are routinely traveled - but in space, routine might mean one or two ships a month. And even if a ship were passing by, they'd our signal is too damned weak; the ambient background radiation of the field will obscure our message. Damned shame no one was passing by when Captain Fuckhead managed to hit that mine - anyone within a half light year would have seen that radiation spike," she grumbled.

"Kifogi eso mati qo? Sayo me?"

She shook her head again. "The residual radiation from the explosion isn't going to be apparent to anyone who isn't looking for it - and no one's going to be looking through the Bryona field for anything. To the extent it can be mapped and studied, it's been mapped and studied; no one's going to bother researching what's already been researched," she said. "No one's going to hear us; no one's going to come looking for us," she added.

She raised her eyes to his. "I'm sorry, S'bey," she said, lifting her hand toward him.

He took it, shaking his head. "Huta, ies simy... esKomiada," he said softly, forgivingly - even shyly.

_esKomiada?_ she repeated silently, staring at the young man in surprise - then looked at the hand holding hers.

"S'bey..." she began softly.

"Uset," he interrupted. "Uset, esKomiada," he repeated, kneeling beside her.

"Oh my dear," she said softly, stunned by the unexpected words of affection... of love, she corrected herself quickly.

Unexpected? she chided herself quickly; unexpected how? He's a young man! This is what young men do - and think and say!

But I'm his mentor, his guardian... I thought I would be his savior - not his lover, she added miserably - and he's barely out of diapers!

No, she reminded herself,. He's anything but a baby; he's a young man - a teenager - who has seen more than his share of death - and as he finally faces his own end, is it any wonder he wants to know what it feels like to be a man? To love - and to make love? she asked herself.

To me, I'm his guardian - his teacher - but to him, I'm a woman, she reminded herself.

I'm old enough to be his mother - and then some, she argued wordlessly.

As though you've never met a man who prefers older women, another part of her countered.

And where's the harm in it? she mused. It would pass these last few hours - and we'd stay warm, she added, and it has been a long time...

And I have taken on the responsibility of saving his life, not squandering it away in a few hours... all right, she admitted, remembering his age and his relative innocence - a few minutes - of sexual pleasure.

She sighed, then smiled at the young man tenderly. "Thank you, my dear," she finally said. "But... I gave my heart to someone else long ago. I am sorry," she added softly - and not insincerely.

For a moment, he frowned at her response, stung by her rebuff - then managed as understanding a smile as his tender years would permit. Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it gently, and with gallantry that belied his age and his history - and for a moment, she regretted her words.

You're going to make some woman very happy, she thought for an instant - then realized he was never going to get the chance.

S'bey - and the children - and me - we're all going to die here. We're going to go down in cold and in silence and no one will ever know.

"Fuck that!" she snapped, startling her would-be lover - then looked at him. "Fuck that, S'bey! We're not going down without a fight! If they can't hear us in this mess, then by the gods I'll make sure they see us! How much air is left in that EV suit?"

He stared at her for a moment, stunned by the unexpected outburst, then rose to his feet and hurried across the room.

"Likt tamet," he called back.

Fifteen minutes, she translated. Not enough.

"Anything in the room tanks?"

"Gruat tamet fra germ'a," he answered.

Refill the suit with enough to give me an hour, allowing for the loss when I enter and exit our would-be airlock, she mused... She made the calculation quickly, then looked at the children around her.

Four hours, she thought; if I do this we have four hours - but a chance.

And if I don't... if I don't, we have nine hours, but nothing else.

She looked at S'bey. "Where there's life, there's hope, S'bey - and by the gods, we're alive. Start repressurizing the suit's tanks," she ordered, rising to her feet. "When you're done, heat up the deck plates over by the far wall, and move the children over there."

"Thy ur isthey vej!" he protested.

"It's warm now - but take my word for this: it won't be for long. Pressurize the suit, move the children - and get back on the comm system and let them know we're here - because we are not going gently into that good night," she said defiantly.

"Ciur?" he said blankly.

She looked back at him, then sighed - and smiled. "From an Earther poem, my dear. I'll tell you about it one day," she said.

And by the gods, I'm going to give you that day - and as many more as the gods will allow, she promised him.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

A pleasant night, Will thought as he walked down the corridor, his arm tenderly enveloped by Deanna's arm – or rather, it would have been pleasant if they weren't headed for the conference room where a late – very late, almost too late – reception dinner awaited them.

But one made accommodations for one's guests, Will thought, and the Kvesterians had made it quite plain that to reschedule the formal reception dinner to the following day would be a breach of protocol that would be unforgivable, even if that meant eating at... Will tried to remember the time on the chronometer in their quarters, vaguely recollecting that it had been damned close to midnight when they left.

Too damned late for a full dinner, he told himself again – and too damned late for Deanna to be up and about, he added – though, he thought as he watched her walk beside him, she was showing none of the fatigue that had plagued her during the last few weeks of her pregnancy.

Work agreed with her, he knew; in just this one day, talking with Data and B-4, talking with the admiral, she had recaptured that inner light that had filled her eyes and her soul for so much of the time he had known her; she glowed, he thought – and that glow had nothing to do with her pregnancy.

Her pregnancy, he repeated silently, a frown crossing his face.

She glared up at him.

"Will, I can hold my own against Professor Femishar; whatever he says about humans, sex and pregnancies, I assure you, I can handle it. You don't have to worry about me," she told him firmly. "Unless, of course, you'd rather I didn't go," Deanna added tentatively. "It is, after all, a diplomatic dinner..."

His smile turned genuine at the touch of uncertainty. "You're not getting out of it that easily," he teased her, then, growing serious, tightened his grip on her hand. "But from what the admiral has said – and from your research indicated - the Kvesterians have never hidden their opinions about human sexuality," he said.

"They don't hide their opinions about _anything_!" she countered with a bit of a grin.

"No – and when they disapprove of something, they make damned sure everyone knows it," he sighed. "I don't envy the admiral the next few weeks," he added. "Spending any more time than is absolutely necessary with those people is not my idea of a vacation."

"He's not going to Samarrasia to 'spend time' with the Kvesterians, Will; what contact they have will be limited to a few days – and, for him, the cost of putting up with Femishar's opinions is a small price to pay for the balance of the trip," she said firmly, adding, "and if Femishar gets a little too opinionated, well, the admiral can hold his own – as can I," she said firmly.

He grinned. "I wasn't worried about you, _Imzadi_; I was concerned for Femishar," he teased.

She smiled back. "If you're lining up opponents, Worf's going to be at the head of the line. The Professor had him mad enough to chew neutronium," she agreed.

"With cause," Will replied. "Femishar's original and approved manifest indicated several hundred crates of supplies and equipment; when he came aboard, that manifest had somehow changed by a factor of ten – and the transport requirements had been altered."

"Worf told me," Deanna sighed. "Single transports, rather than the mass cargo transporters..."

"Which put us hours behind our scheduled departure..." Will added.

"And then Worf had to assign teams to haul all that gear down to the cargo bays because Femishar refused to allow it to be transported," she concluded.

"It could have been worse," Will countered.

"Oh?"

Will nodded. "Femishar wanted to have each piece of equipment tested and recalibrated after transport to ensure that it wasn't damaged."

"And...?"

"And if there was any damage, he wanted the equipment replaced," Will finished.

Deanna raised a brow at the idea. "By the Federation, I assume?"

Will nodded. "It would seem that the Kvesterians are working under the misconception that the Federation will do anything to keep the Romulans' feathers from getting ruffled because of this dig – and that it would include giving in the Femishar's so not-so-subtle extortion."

"I assume Mr. Worf disabused him of that idea," Deanna said.

"Worf let the professor know that if any equipment needed to be replaced, the archaeological team would have to requisition from their home world – and that they could make arrangements to get another Federation vessel to transport them, if and when the equipment arrived," the captain said with a grin.

"And with the rainy season only a few weeks away, they'd have to postpone the dig until next year, I gather," Deanna said. "Worf's turning into quite the diplomat," she said.

Riker nodded. "And a good negotiator as well. Good enough that he convinced me to let him take the night shift on the bridge."

"And avoid this? He _is_ getting good," Deanna murmured.

Will chuckled. "He had to put up with the Kvesterians all afternoon; that's enough for any one man. But in any case, the dig's timing is pretty bad. The Kvesterians spent so much time arguing with the Federation about the admiral's involvement and activities that they already lost a number of weeks; Femishar's delays today just put them that much farther behind."

"Can't we make up time by increasing speed?" Deanna asked, concerned more for Picard's sake than for the obstreperous Kvesterians.

He smiled at her, fully aware of the reason for her concern. "We're not about to let the admiral down, _Imzadi_; he'll get his full vacation. Our original course took us through some areas of subspace instability, meaning a warp five speed limitation, but I've ordered a course change that will allow us to proceed a little faster."

Deanna nodded, then sighed. "It's a shame that the Federation stopped the research into Biji's quantum temporal engines; it would have been a solution to the subspace instability problems, and would have eliminated the damage the warp engines cause the environment – and we wouldn't have to change routes to accommodate the faster speeds."

"Agreed – but you know the politics as well as I do," he said disapprovingly, then fell silent.

She nodded, turning her attention away as well, sighing at the memory.

Speed, she thought to herself, remembering her basic physics classes, was actually a measure of time a distance – move so far, in such a period of time. Kilometers per hour, she thought, parsecs per minute – but while distance and time were both unlimited measurements, the combination of the two had a finite limit, theorized by Albert Einstein in the twentieth century, and borne out by experience ever since. Mass simply could not be accelerated beyond the speed of light.

Warp drive had altered that problem by changing the distance between any two points; warp space - fold space – and the two points were now closer, shortening the time it took to traverse the decreased distance.

What no one had suspected, however, was that warping space was detrimental to the environment – and that damage was cumulative. As time passed, more and more areas of space were being threatened with subspace instabilities, threatening travel, commerce – and perhaps, in time, the planets and people within those regions.

The Federation has responded by recharting as much of the quadrant as possible, limiting travel through those more seriously damaged areas, and reducing speeds wherever damage was developing – but environmentalists had protested those actions as mere stalling techniques, delaying the inevitable without addressing the real cause.

And they were right, Deanna knew.

Andile had known it as well – but unlike Starfleet and the Federation, she had sought a real answer – and found one.

Her temporal engines did to time what warp engines did to space – folding time until two moments, the moment of departure and the moment of arrival, were closer together – but without damaging subspace in the process.

Whether it damaged the fabric of time was yet to be seen – or rather, she sighed, would have been seen, had her engines been implemented.

But Starfleet's Admiralty, under the guidance of Admiral Thaddeus Czymszczyk, had banned the use of the engine, claiming that the use of a design created by a suspected treasoner would put the entire Federation at risk. The Admiralty had accepted the argument, banning Andile's engines and prohibiting any further work that utilized her original research – and forcing the Federation into more and more limited courses throughout space.

It would be generations before the damage truly limited the Federation's efforts throughout the quadrant, she knew – FTL travel would continue throughout her life, the life of her children and her children's children – but after that? she wondered. Would humanity be set to back to where they once were, limited to the planets of their originations, sinking back into isolation – and worse?

The thought depressed her – then angered her as she felt her resentment toward Adm. Czymszczk rise once again.

He condemned Biji for his crimes – and maybe he's condemned all of humanity as well! she raged silently – then felt a hand on hers.

Stopping, she turned and stared up into the eyes of her husband.

"Beej will outlive us all, imzadi; you, me – and Czymszczyk," he reminded her quickly. "She won't let our children – our future – be stuck on one planet."

Deanna nodded, but reluctantly. "No... but she doesn't owe us – the Federation – anything, Will. They condemned her – even after she died," she reminded him.

"Beej never held a grudge, Deanna – and you and junior here," he lovingly patted the swell of her belly, "should be damned thankful for that – or I would have died in that fire in the computer core," he reminded her.

"I thank her every day," she countered. "Except when I'm having a bout of morning sickness," she added with a smile.

Will grinned, ducked his head to kiss her gently, then stepped forward, touched the pad at the door, and stood back, allowing Deanna to precede him into the conference lounge.

Another reason to thank their old friend, Will thought, smiling at the appointments to the space. Starfleet policy dictated that reception spaces be sparingly adorned, designed not to please the senses but rather to avoid offending them.

Andile – like many others - had argued that carefully designed neutrality often suggested indifference – but unlike others, she had acted on her thoughts. It had turned the course of the gathering, earning her a reprimand in the process – and then a promotion.

As captain, Riker had opted not to flaunt protocol by openly following her practice – but he had learned the lesson nonetheless; receptions – indeed, every diplomatic gathering on the Enterprise – was warmer and more welcoming than protocol required – and the number of successful conferences and negotiations that resulted bore testimony to that practice.

Except, perhaps, for this one, Will added, sensing a distinct chill in the room as they moved toward the room's center.

Having met Femishar earlier in the day, Will fully understood why so many people thought that Kvesterians were perhaps just another human colony that had been lost in the diaspora after the Eugenics War; the nine people clustered near Admiral Picard were definitely humanoid, with skin colors akin to those of Earthers, hair showing an equal range of shades and demeanor and mannerisms not unlike the human who stood with them. They even sipped at drinks that bespoke a similar digestive process, he added.

But even from this distance, Will could sense an other-worldliness about them, something that marked them not as members of a lost colony, but as something... different.

The work of the Breen, Will thought, or perhaps of the Progenitors millennia before them, another example of the many races that had evolved along similar lines – something that probability and logic would have deemed impossible – but had facilitated the spread of the Federation throughout the quadrant, and eased the path of mutual cooperation.

And war, he added; that which makes us the same also often divides us, he thought disappointedly.

He shook back the thought, then spying Picard in the room, nodded at the man. Taking Deanna's arm, they moved toward the gathering, smiling as they approached.

"Admiral..." he began, only to be curtly interrupted by the sharp bark of one of the Kvesterians.

"She's pregnant!" he barked, his expression one of undisguised revulsion.

Will's smile faded instantly, but before he could speak, Deanna stepped forward.

Applying her most pleasant, most professional – most diplomatic – smile, she bowed – at least to the extent she could.

I'd offer him my hand, she thought silently, but he'd probably spit in it.

"Professor Femishar," she said politely. "Your powers of observation are as remarkable as I've been told," she added graciously.

The unctuous return must have caught the man by surprise, for he fell silent – and Will quickly stepped in to fill the gap.

"Professor, may I introduce Commander Deanna Troi, our ship's counselor?" he said.

Deanna glanced at Will, noting his omission of their relationship, then followed his lead. She inclined her head at the gaping man, knowing that the offer of a handshake would be disdained. "Professor," she said.

He gaped a moment longer, then looked at her belly once more, then back at Picard. "She is pregnant," he repeated. "The smell offends us. Have her dismissed," he added imperiously.

Picard looked at Will for a moment, then turned back to Femishar. "Professor, this is Captain Riker's ship, not mine," gesturing to Will. "It is not my place to give orders while he is in command."

"Fine!" Femishar snapped, turning to Riker. "Then you dismiss her," he ordered. "I will not have the smell of human sex present during our meal."

Will opened his mouth to protest, but Deanna stopped him with a glance.

"Professor, I'm sure that you are well aware that the pheromones produced by human females during pregnancy do not vary significantly from those of non-pregnant humans," she said.

"They do," he countered. "I can smell you – and the odor offends me," he said.

"Then you must be smelling someone – or something - else," she replied. "You see, Professor, I'm not human. I'm a Betazoid."

That she was half-human, Picard thought, wasn't a detail that needed to be mentioned – nor was the fact that the father of her child was fully human; her words had effectively silenced the man.

While he gaped, Deanna moved smoothly toward the first of the eight remaining Kvesterians, bowing politely as she introduced herself and listened to the names of the others in return.

To her surprise, they were all far younger – and far more polite - than Femishar. Students, she surmised from their ages and relative innocence – but hadn't the Admiral said they were a bound group? she wondered, remembering that Picard had described the term as akin to a polygamous marriage.

Whatever their relationship, it was obvious that Femishar's bad manners had yet to rub off on these youngsters; they were all quietly respectful, even pleasant – and one even went so far as to offer his hand to her in an approximation of an Earth-like handshake.

She had taken it, return it as warmly as it had been offered – and watched the young man suddenly blush furiously.

Satisfied that the situation had been defused – at least as far as it could be with a man of Femishar's temperament – Will spoke.

"If you're ready, we can adjourn to the table," he said.

Instantly, Femishar spoke up. "It is far too early to begin the meal," he said, to the obvious disappointment of his group.

"Then we can delay as long as you wish," Will countered smoothly, turning to one of the ensigns who was serving as waitstaff for the gathering. "Inform the kitchen that the meal will be delayed..."

"No," Femishar interjected instantly. "We will eat now."

Will inclined his head, gestured to the others to make their way to the tables – then looked at Picard. "How long are you staying at their camp?" he asked curiously after the group had passed them both.

"Too damned long," the older man sighed quietly, then took a generous sip from the drink he held before moving toward the table.

Will raised a brow at the man's actions – then realized that Picard had never resorted to over-indulgence in alcohol as a refuge from his worries. Still, he felt a touch of relief as the senior officer handed his half-filled drink to one of the ensigns and moved toward the table.

Of course, it wouldn't be the first time that someone had been intoxicated at a reception dinner – though usually it was one of the guests who overindulged, not one of the officers. Not that Picard wasn't entitled, he added; he had spent only few hours with Femishar earlier in the day – and that had almost taxed his limits; Picard was going to spend several months with this group – as good a reason for a stiff drink as any.

And, he admitted, it might be interesting to see Picard without his usual iron-willed control in place, remembering more than a few stories about the man's adventures as a cadet, ensign and lieutenant, and wondering what Picard had been like then.

Vibrant, energetic – and perhaps more than a bit of a rogue and roué, he added – and silently wishing that the man would rediscover that part of himself now, in the later years of his life. Life shouldn't be spent behind a desk, studying books and digging up shards of another life lost long before, he thought, wishing Beverly had found someway to exempt herself from the conference that had waylaid from joining Picard – and wishing she, too, would find a better way to spend these later years of her life.

You're not growing any younger, he reminded the two silently. If you don't enjoy yourself now, when are you going to?

_Imzadi_, Deanna's thought interrupted him.

He looked up, realized the others had already taken their places at the table - as arranged by Femishar, he realized instantly.

Picard might well have outranked Will, but when the admiral had declared Will's rule to be law on this ship, Femishar had moved from his position at Picard's side to that at Riker's right hand, displacing Deanna, then quickly arranging his group between them, leaving the two remaining officers to the opposite end of the table.

"Establishing a pecking order," Deanna murmured to Picard as he held out a chair for her.

"That's more accurate than you know," he replied.

"Oh?"

"A bound group," he said, nodding at the others as they sat down, "is not a marriage as we would understand it. It establishes a social order, ensuring the smooth functioning of the group as a whole. These bonds are usually of a temporary nature, dissolved when, in this case, the research is completed," he explained.

"Then why the bonding?" she asked.

"In a situation where the full social structure of Kvesterian society is not available to guide younger members, such as the one were about to face, the bonding establishes a clear and defined line of command, with each person serving the next higher ranking individual," Picard said.

"With the Professor as alpha dog, so to speak," she said.

The admiral nodded.

"That must be hard on the lowest member of the group," she continued.

He shook his head, smiling. "It's rare that one person would be left at the bottom for more than a day or two, especially in a group of such people, where the cooperation and function of each member is critical. If you keep a person down too long, their self-respect and focus will deteriorate – and that can't be allowed to happen in such a tight-knit group like this. Thus, the social order can – and will – change frequently, but every night, one man – or woman – will be the ninth person – and subsequently left out."

"Left out?" she replied.

He reddened. "Um... Yes," he murmured. "Of the night's activities," he added, by way of an explanation.

"You mean... Femishar assigns sex partners?" she replied, appalled.

Femishar must have overheard her remark, for he turned to address the two. "I have explained to the admiral that the exclusion of one member from the gathering each night should not be misinterpreted as an invitation for him to partner with that individual," he announced loudly. "The idea of sexual contact between a Kvesterian and a human is quite revolting. Furthermore, the smell of human sex is quite offensive, and will disrupt the cohesive function of our group. I have also insisted that he refrain from masturbation while he is present in our group. The very thought of the act is odious, and the idea of having his body fluids contaminating the site..." He broke off, shuddering at the idea.

Deanna felt her jaw starting to drop, incensed by the academic's outrageous behavior – but before she could react, she felt Picard's hand on hers.

"Admiral!" she protested, but he only shook his head.

"Counselor," he replied quietly, "Kvesterian society is based on establishing social order, usually through insult and deprecating remarks. The more one reacts and responds to those remarks, the lower his or her status. Your failure to react earlier earned you merit in the eyes of the Kvesterians – at the Professor's cost."

She studied him for a moment. "Is the dig that important to you?" she asked.

He looked at her, meeting her eyes, and managed a not-too-sincere smile. "I'd prefer to think that my ego has developed to the point where it can survive a few barbs – and if I can take it, so can you," he advised her.

She stared at him, trying to decide is he was telling the truth, or just hiding some inner pain – again, she added – then stopped as she heard him sigh.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just hard to break old habits."

"I appreciate your concern, Counselor – but I'm fine," he insisted. "And yes," he continued, changing the topic back to safer ground, "Femishar – the head of this group – assigns sex partners ever evening, each establishing the social protocol for the following day. His partner will be his second the following day, and so forth."

She gaped. "But what if they aren't interested in their assigned partner?" she asked, aghast.

The young man beside her – the one who had proffered his hand and blushed at her touch – and who had clearly been demoted to the far end of the table as a result of those actions, leaned closer to the two.

"I beg your pardon, Counselor, but... it's not like that. At least, not for us," he added, gesturing at the other students. "We've been together for years, and we enjoy one another. We wouldn't have agreed to this project if we didn't like each other," he explained.

"But... what if one of you isn't... in the mood?" she asked, tentatively.

"The Professor assigns partners – but we're not compelled to act. If we're not in the mood, then we hug and kiss and go to sleep," he said, smiling. "This is a dig, Counselor; if you've never participated in one, then you can't appreciate how physically demanding they are. Most nights we are asleep before we hit the beds; only the Professor's partner is expected to perform – and I suspect most nights even he is too tired to do anything more than sleep," he said, then added quietly, "though I don't think he'd ever admit to not being up to having a partner each and every night."

"And the gender of the selected partners isn't an issue?" she asked.

The man – Needla, Deanna recalled – smiled. "I understand your question; I've read enough about humans to know that in your society sexual orientation and gender preference is an issue," he said.

"Not in all human societies," she replied, "but on some worlds it has been a contentious problem, especially in the past."

"On most worlds in the Federation, people are now content to ignore the gender preferences of their neighbors," Picard volunteered.

Needla nodded. "We, on the other hand, never had the issue arise. Sexual and gender preferences aren't an issue for most of us, because – at least for those who have not achieved full maturity – we have not established our final gender," he informed the two.

"I beg your pardon?" Deanna said.

"Despite out apparent physical similarity to you humans – and the Betazoids," he instantly added, "we are quite different. Our bodies contain the genetic material to be either male or female, and while we manifest the outward appearance of one or the other, the final determination won't be made until we achieve sexual maturity – at about the age of twenty-five. This was probably an evolutionary adaptation to environmental stressors – sufficient food meant the environment could support more child-bearers, while famine would shift the balance to more hunters and food gatherers, with less focus on child-bearing. But it has left us with the ability to change genders at time of maturity.

"Of course, we no longer have to leave that choice to fate; we can elect to mate with a dominant member of the gender we choose, and their m-RNA will overwrite ours," he added.

"Needless to say, having a full range of sexual and other life experiences with members of both genders allows us to make a better choice for that decision," he added.

He smiled at the two, then apologetically added, "You must excuse me now; while I quite enjoyed speaking with you both, I have no desire to be ik-va – low person – through this entire mission," he said, then turned his attention to Femishar, who carrying on loudly at the head of the table.

Still astounded, Deanna turned to Picard. "Femishar would punish him for talking with us?" she asked.

Picard nodded. "He already has, in retaliation Needla having shaken your hand," he explained. "If he chooses, he can continue to do so for as long as he wants. I am sorry, Deanna," he added quietly, knowing how the woman would react to the news.

Deanna looked at him in horror. "Admiral, if I had known..."

He nodded. "You didn't – but Needla did," he said – then smiled. "And knowing what he did, he still chose to talk with us. I hope that it's a indicator for changes in the young people of that world," he said.

Still shocked, Deanna barely reacted as a flat bowl of soup was placed before her. Acting by rote, she reached for the spoon – then felt Picard's hand on hers.

"One last thing, Counselor; Kvesterians believe that if you begin to eat something, you must finish it. Having had kon-metsya-amu before," he inclined his head at the bowl of orange liquid, "I would advise you to err on the side of caution, if not for your own, sake, then for that of my future godchild's. The main component of the soup is a vegetable not unlike habanero peppers from Earth – except somewhat more pungent," he said, then as if to demonstrate, he left his spoon where it lay on the side of the bowl.

Hungry as she was, there would be six more courses to follow, Deanna knew – and not all of them would be Kvesterian.

Deferring to Picard's recommendation, she left her spoon where it was, watching as the Kvesterians – and Will - devoured the spicy mixture.

All that practice eating gagh, she mused.

For the next few hours, course after course followed, and the Kvesterians laughed and talked amongst themselves and with Will, occasionally glancing at the two outcasts at the far end of the table, with Femishar occasionally making some remark deigned to prick at Picard.

The senior officer took the humiliating comments with far more grace and far less embarrassment than he would have done when he was her commanding officer, Deanna thought – or at least appeared to do so, she amended, mourning the temporary loss of her empathy. Then again, she thought, maybe he was becoming desensitized after the last few weeks with these people. The gods knew, Deanna decided after a few rounds pointed at her, that the remarks were losing their sting; instead, she found herself enjoying her conversation with Picard.

Femishar's rudeness, she decided, was yielding some unexpected, but entirely welcome results.

As the last of the dishes was being cleared however, Deanna heard the conference room doors open, and turned to watch as Worf hurriedly moved to Will's side. Lowering himself to the man's height, the Klingon spoke quietly, quickly – and urgently.

Something important, she realized instantly – but something Worf didn't want to announce over Riker's commbadge.

Not good news, she decided, worry swelling in her mind.

Will's eyes widened, then raising his napkin to his lips, patted them before rising from the table. Making his way to Picard, he bent down, murmuring just loud enough for Deanna to hear, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but we've got an emergency, Admiral – thank God. I don't know how much more of Femishar's posturing I could take," he explained.

He shook off the memory of the man, then turned his attention back to Deanna and Picard. "Worf says that sensors have indicated a massive explosion three parsecs ahead," he informed them. "At this distance we're got almost no data, so we're going to detour to investigate. If you'll handle this group...?" he asked.

Picard nodded. "Of course, Captain."

"Will...?" Deanna asked.

"That's all that Worf knows, Deanna; I'll let you know as soon as we know more," he told her.

He straightened, then turned to face the gathering. "An urgent matter, Professor. If you'll excuse me," he said, then turned and made for the doors, Worf on his heels.

As the diners turned to one another to discuss the sudden departure, Deanna quickly looked at Picard. "We're near the Bryona minefield, aren't we?" she asked worriedly.

"Not close enough to be in danger – but the explosion probably did come from the field," he said. "The explosion was probably just two mines that finally found each other," he added. "Nonetheless, Will's right to check it out. Every year one or two ships try to run the field," he sighed. "If that's the case, there may be survivors." He looked at the Kvesterians watching him intently, then turned back to Deanna. "Let's bring this to as quick an end as possible, then join him on the bridge," he said.

She nodded, then gestured for the ensign who was about to serve the first of the post-dinner liqueurs. Taking the bottle, she moved to Riker's place, settled in at the head of the table and smiled at the academician beside her. "Starfleet protocol requires that the highest ranking ship's officer serves as host at an official function," she informed the man, "so I'll be standing in for Captain Riker. An after-dinner drink, Professor?" she asked sweetly, proffering the bottle.

Appalled, Femishar quickly rose to his feet – and within minutes, the gathering had broken up, the participants off to their assigned quarters.

Deanna smiled at Picard. "Was that quick enough for you, Admiral?" she asked sweetly.

He shook his head in bemusement. "Remind me not to get on your bad side, Counselor," he said, then offered his crooked his arm to her. "Shall we?"

She slid his hand into the opening, then beamed back. "Thank you, Admiral," then walked with him through the conference doors and into the deserted corridor of the starship.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

As the turbolift doors slid open, Deanna and Picard stepped onto the bridge - and stopped.

A wave of nostalgia washed over Picard, memories of other nights, other emergencies, other disasters filling his thoughts; that feeling of urgency tempered with a calm borne of experience and confidence; the surge of adrenaline that set his heart to racing; the uncertainty of not knowing what lay out there, waiting for that unknown - and the thrill, the dread, of trying to prepare for every contingency - and knowing - knowing! - that there would always be something for which they hadn't prepared.

It was exciting, it was thrilling, it had filled his heart and his soul for so much of his life...

But this wasn't his bridge, he reminded himself quickly, firmly; this wasn't his ship, and the life he so fondly remembered was no longer his. These weren't even his officers, he added, watching as Will moved from station to station, looking at readouts, speaking quietly with each person, discussing the possibilities, then moving on to the next station.

I would never have done that, he thought; I had them gather the information, then bring it to me. If I had stood there, I would have been hovering, intimidating them - an outsider, an interloper.

But Will seemed a part of this group, Picard thought as he watched the officer move through the bridge. Will was an integral part of the machine that was his Enterprise, where he had been...

Deanna tightened her grip on his arm. "Admiral?"

Drawn away from the thought, he looked at her, saw the worry on her face, the concern in her eyes and forced a smile.

"Just remembering," he admitted.

She nodded, knowing, even without her empathy that there was more to his solemnity than he was saying.

But this was not the place to broach the topic, she knew - nor his the time, she added, as Will looked up, noting their arrival.

"Admiral, Deanna," he said, beckoning them toward the science station. "Long range sensors picked up a massive explosion in the Bryona minefield."

"Any idea what caused it?" Picard asked.

"My first thought was two mines hit one another," Will said. "There's been increased traffic in that sector of late. The passage of the ships has affected the stability of the minefield, and there have been reports of more interfield collisions. But..."

He fell silent as Worf stepped up to him, a padd in his hand. "Analysis of the reading from the long range sensors, Captain," he said. "We're still too far away for short range sensors to get detailed readings, but it doesn't appear to be a mine to mine collision; sensors indicate a matter-antimatter signature."

"A ship, then?" Will asked.

"Possibly, Captain," Worf said.

"But unlikely," Picard commented.

Will nodded.

Deanna looked at the two, perplexed. "Why is it unlikely?" she asked.

"Unless the mine hit the ship's warp core dead center, we wouldn't be seeing a matter-antimatter signature," Will explained.

"Why not?"

"The field is old - more than a thousand years - and time, nature - and stupidity on the part of some ships' captains - has taken care of the vast majority of those large mines. What's left are thousands - perhaps hundred of thousands - of medium and small mines."

"And a small mine won't create an antimatter explosion?" Deanna asked.

"Only if it were to contact the warp core directly," Will answered.

"The smaller mines were utilized by the Trellians to incapacitate ships - damage them to the point of immobility and killing the crew - at which point the Trellians would enter the field and scavenge the vessels for components and parts - even salvaging the entire ship if it were feasible," he added.

"Toward the end of the war, it was their only source of supplies," Worf added, clearly disapproving warriors who had reduced themselves to the level of scavengers.

"Warp cores and antimatter containers are not readily interchangeable between propulsion systems," Will continued. "Usually they were left behind - and this sort of reaction might result."

"But the war's been over for a thousand years," Deanna protested. "Wouldn't all that old debris have been destroyed by now?" she asked.

Will grinned at her. "That's why we're going to check it out. The odds are that we're just seeing the modern-day results of just such a salvage - someone raided an old wreck and ejected the core as not being worth their time, and the core breached at last," he said.

"So why investigate?" she pressed, worry creasing her brow.

Will frowned at her, surprised be her reticence and her concern. "Because the explosion will have affected the orbits of those mines in the area; we need to make sure no mines have moved outside the field and into the shipping lanes."

Deanna nodded her understanding, but the lines on her head didn't fade.

"What is it, Deanna?" Will pressed. "Are you sensing something?"

She stared into space for a moment - then shook her head. "No; Junior has seen to that," she said. "It's just that I have the feeling that something is wrong, Will," she said.

He studied his wife for a moment, then said, "Don't worry; our long range sensors can detect the mines from a safe distance. If anything has moved into the shipping lanes, we can destroy it without endangering the ship," he assured her.

She nodded, accepting his words - but her expression didn't change.

Will studied her a moment longer, then looked at Worf. "How long until we in range for a detailed sensor sweep?" he asked.

"At this speed, three hours, forty-seven minutes..." the first officer began.

"Let's go to warp eight," Will said quietly, still watching his wife, then added, "and begin sweeping the area as soon as we're in range. If there's something out there, let's find it," he said.

Worf nodded, then turned, calling out orders to the helm as he moved across the bridge.

Will looked back at Deanna and Picard, then inclined his head toward the ready room. "It's going to be a long night; shall we?" he asked.

Picard opened his mouth to protest, to remind Will that this was his ship, his mission, and he had no place on the bridge... then closed it.

It had been a long time since I've done this, he thought, and it would be a longer one still before I'll get a chance to do this again - if ever. He met his former first officer's eyes, and nodded.

Deanna, on the other hand, shook her head. "I'll leave this to you two adventurers. Junior and I have had a long day - and I'll be meeting with Data in the morning to continue his readjustment to the present. If you'll excuse me?" she said.

Will smiled, then took her hand, leading her back to the lift, then kissed her gently.

"Don't do anything stupid, Will," she asked quietly.

He frowned, then shook his head. "I'm not planning on it, Imzadi," he replied. "Don't worry; I'll be back to our quarters as soon as we get this mystery solved."

She nodded, still uncertain, then stepped onto the lift as the doors opened, then, seeing Will's own worried expression, smiled back at him as the doors shut between them.

Will stared at the closed doors for a moment, then turned to Picard.

"She's worried," he said.

"I gathered," Picard replied. "With reason?"

Will raised a brow, then sighed. "If you mean, 'can we rely on her empathic abilities?', then the answer is 'no'."

"But you still take her concern under advisement?" Picard countered, following as Will moved toward the ready room doors.

"Wouldn't you?" Will replied, then gestured for the man to enter the small office.

Will moved to the replicator. "Earl Grey?" he asked, directing the admiral to the long couch that faced one wall.

Picard nodded as he sat, watching as Will called up a cup of the steaming liquid, then placed a second order for a cup of coffee.

Setting the cups down, Picard reached for his, then stopped, catching the aroma from the second as Will took his place on the opposite end of the couch. "Sun-fermented Sumatran?" he asked.

The cup half way to his lips, Will grinned. "Starfleet may have disallowed the use of Andile's engines as perilous to the safety of the Federation - but I thought retaining her coffee program was safe enough," he admitted.

"Wise decision," Picard murmured, raising his own cup. He savored the flavor for a moment, relishing the heat of the liquid as it filled his stomach, then sighing as the first touch of caffeine began to course through his veins.

"As is following Deanna's instincts," Will said, sitting back.

"I wasn't questioning your judgment, Captain," Picard said quietly.

"I didn't think you were, Admiral," Will replied. "You often relied not just on the evidence and the known abilities of your people - but on their gut feelings as well. I try to do the same - especially when it echoes my own instincts," he explained.

"So you think there's more to this explosion than just an old core finally deteriorating?"

Will shrugged. "It was a hell of an explosion, sir; we detected it three parsecs away - so unless we're seeing a core bigger than ours finally break up - and there's never been any record of a ship that size venturing into the field - we're looking at something else entirely."

"Like an illicit trade gone bad?" Picard asked.

Will nodded. "I read your report," he agreed. "Since the Romulan Senate was wiped out during the Reman uprising, the Ferengi and the Orion have been doing a lot of trading with the various Romulan factions that were left."

"Section 31 has been unable to confirm whether those factions are planning a coup against the existing government, or planning to support it against other factions and gain some strength within the existing political system. Either way, however, they are stocking up on weapons and materiel," Picard said.

"I assume your 'sources' on Romulus haven't been able to provide you with any more specific information?" Will said, pressing the man gently on that sensitive topic.

"Tiron," Picard replied pointedly, "has refused all contact with me - and with the Federation," Picard said, leaving unspoken the answer to Will's unvoiced question. "He's stepped down from the Senate, you know," Picard added.

"I know. I understand his granddaughter was extremely ill and he retired to take care of her," Will said.

"Yes," Picard agreed, deigning not to take the bait the captain was offering. "As a result, he has declined any participation in the current political issues - or in the treaty ratification process."

Will studied the man for a long moment, then decided against pressing the issue further; if Picard knew something, he wasn't going to divulge it to Will - and if he didn't...

If he didn't, pressing him would only increase his concern for his old friend - old friends, he amended - and worry already seemed to be the admiral's constant companion, Will thought.

"If we do run into a trade gone bad, however, we're not in a position to do much, other than help any survivors," Will continued, changing the topic deftly. "We've given the Romulans access to open trade routes as part of the treaty negotiations - and the route around the Bryona field is one of those areas," he reminded Picard.

"Of course, if we find any evidence of illicit trade occurring while they were there..." he continued.

"Hence the order for the detailed sensor sweeps," Picard said.

"And to make sure we're not going to walk into the middle of a battle," Will added. "The Romulans - and the Orions and the Ferengi - have been known to shoot first and ask questions later - provided that there are survivors to question," he added. "Not that I'm too concerned about that; Worf worked out the rate of decay on the residue, and it appears the explosion occurred about three hours before we first detected it. It's unlikely that any combatants who were able to get out would still be there," he added.

"And anyone left behind...?" Picard asked.

Will sighed. "It was a hell of an explosion, Admiral," the man repeated. "I don't know if anything - or anyone - in the area could have survived it," he admitted.

Picard nodded, sipped his tea - then looked up as Will's commbadge chirped. "Worf to Riker," came the Klingon's low growl.

Will touched his badge. "Riker here. What is it, Worf?"

"Sir, we're picking up a communications base frequency - very weak," he added. "We're still too far away to pick up the message itself - if there is one," he added.

"Coming from the area of the explosion?"

"No," Worf replied, puzzlement clear in his voice. "The signal is coming from the far side of the Bryona field. The explosion was on the periphery - over one hundred fifty million kilometers away from the source of the message."

Will touched his badge, silencing the contact, and looked at his former captain. "Coincidence?" he mused.

"You know my thoughts about coincidence, Will," Picard replied.

"The same as mine," Will agreed, then touched the badge again. "Worf, let's move in as close to the source of the comm signal as we can - safely," he added. "That explosion may have shifted mines on the opposite side of the field."

"Understood, Captain," Worf replied.

Will rose to his feet, then looked at Picard questioningly. "Would you care to join me, sir?"

Picard hesitated; as a captain, he had hated having admirals and other superior officers on his bridge during a crisis, and he suspected Will had similar feelings about the matter.

But the temptation was almost overwhelming.

But it wasn't his bridge, he reminded himself sharply - and this wasn't his crisis.

"I don't want to be in your way, Will," he said at last.

"If I thought you were going to be in the way, sir," Will replied, "I wouldn't have asked you to join me," he said with a smile.

Picard nodded. "Then I'd be honored," he agreed.

Will grinned, stepped to the door - and felt a small wash of satisfaction as he realized Picard was directly behind him, the admiral's reticence gone in a rush of enthusiasm.

Enthusiasm that was quickly checked as the two stepped onto the nearly silent bridge, a faint crackle of static the only sound to break the still air.

A crackle - and a faint, almost indecipherable word.

"...k'ercha..."

"That's Cardassian," the ensign at the communications board said. "It means 'rupture'," she added.

"Anything else?" Will asked.

"Two partial words," Worf said. "Possibly Cardassian, possibly Klingon. Neither was complete."

"The signal is weakening sir," the ensign announced. "It looks like their power supply is running down."

"Try to fix their position," Will ordered. "If we lose them, even our sensors won't be able find them in that field."

"Trying, sir," she said, "but there's a lot of interference from that explosion..."

"Do your best," Will said, then looked at Worf, silently signaling the man to join them. "Cardassians?" he asked when the Klingon made his way to join them. "What the hell are they doing out here?"

"I do not think it is a Cardassian ship, sir," Worf said. "The carrier wave is one usually used by Orion ships - and the voice was... immature," he said.

"Immature? A child?"

"Older - perhaps just beyond the age of ascension," Worf said. "It's unlikely that a person of that age would be aboard a Cardassian vessel."

Will's face darkened. "A slave ship?" he guessed angrily.

"Possible. Orion slave ships have been known to run the field to try to avoid capture," he said. "Most do not make it. It is possible that one of the 'passengers' may have freed himself and be trying to signal for help."

Will nodded, then looked at Picard. "That would explain Deanna's impression," he said. "She may not be able to detect a single call for help - but a stranded slave ship...?" he guessed. "Even the baby couldn't block out a call for help of that intensity - even though she wouldn't be able to identify the call as such."

He turned back to Worf. "Can we use transporters in the field?" he asked.

Worf shook his head. "Background radiation in the field prohibits the use of transporters. Remotely operated shuttles..."

Will shook his head. "The same interference that limits transporters limits the range of the remote control systems. No; if there are survivors, we're going to have to take the shuttles in. If there are survivors."

He fell silent, listening again to the fading static, then heard a sharp cry from the ensign at the comm board.

"Got her!" she cried out.

"Her?" Will echoed.

"This time it's a woman," she announced.

"Adult?"

"Sounds like it, sir," she replied.

Will looked at Worf. "The captain?"

Worf shook his head uncertainly. "Women run Orion society, but very few do so openly. More often they place themselves in the apparent role of slave to obfuscate their true relationships to those who appear to be in power."

"All the more reason to act cautiously," Will said. "If it is an Orion slaver, this speaker might try to hide herself as one of the victims." He turned back to the communications officer. "Can you translate the message?"

"I don't need to, sir; this time it's in Federation Standard," she said, then touched a key on the board.

The voice, rough with static, faint from distant, gasped, "This is the Orion vessel..." It faded for a moment, then returned, "hit mine... captain... thirty... vivors... rupture..." The signal faded again, for several seconds this time, then, "... fucking cold..." before the signal faded altogether.

Despite himself, despite the intensity of the moment, Will felt himself grin. "She's got a way with words," he murmured just as the communications ensign called out, "I've lost her, sir. The signal faded out; they must have lost power."

"Tell me you got a lock on her position," Will called to the helmsman.

"Yes, sir. Got her..."

"On screen," Will ordered.

The helmsman ran his hands over the board, trying to block out the worst of the interference, then touched a key, looked up at the central screen, and whispered, "Oh, my god."

Will looked up - and drew in a sharp breath.

"How in hell do you survive that?" he asked no one.

He had seen ships that had been in disasters before; he had flown through what remained after Wolf 359, he had seen the Enterprise herself after her encounter with the Remans - but he had never seen a ship like this.

Whatever had happened, it had sheared - neatly, perfectly, beautifully - the top half of the bridge away from the rest of the vessels, leaving the command positions intact - and open to the depths of space.

It was stunning - and horrifying, Will added, making out the chairs of the command deck still in place, the control boards arrayed before them, seemingly untouched - but empty; the command crew that had taken their positions on that bridge must have died in the instant the ship had been torn apart, he thought soberly.

He fell silent for a moment, honoring the loss of a fellow space traveler - then felt the his chest tighten again as the ship continued its unhurried end-over-end roll through space, and saw the immense tear that ripped through the port side of the vessel.

The explosion hadn't been as neat as he had first thought; the ship hadn't just been sheared apart, but had, instead, been broken, a giant tear running from the bridge down the side of the ship - and continuing to tear the ship in half. As he watched, a faint puff of shimmering crystals exploded from the rift, clear evidence of the loss of atmosphere as another level of the ship tore open.

The puff pushed at the ship, changing the angel of its rotation, and despite his fascination, Will tore his eyes from the breach. "Compensate for the change in the ship's movement, he said.

"Yes, sir," the helmsman said.

Will look at the ship another moment, then looked to Picard. "Think they're still alive?" he asked.

"If they were in the engine room, it's possible," the admiral said. "It's as far from that rift as you can be."

"But it won't be for long," Will said, then turned to Worf. "Is there any place a shuttle can lock on?" he asked.

"No. The nearest docking port is in the cargo bay - and that's already exposed to space. If we're going to use the shuttles we're going to have to soft seal, then cut our way in. It will take time."

"We don't have time," Will countered, staring at the length of the tear.

"We can use the shuttle's phasers to cut a hole; it will only take a few seconds," Worf suggested.

"And it will decompress the area," Will argued, "and kill everyone present."

"If they're there," Picard said. "Let them know what you're doing, have them move into an adjacent space, then repressurize the area after you seal on," he suggested.

"Admiral," the communications officer said, "they don't have power to the comm system; they won't hear our message."

Picard smiled. "Ensign, there are other, older ways of communicating," he said, then looked at Will. "They were smart enough to survive that explosion, Will, smart enough to figure out how to get attention from the middle of the Bryona field; they're smart enough to figure out what you're going to do - if you let them know you're coming."

Will studied the man for a moment, then nodded. "Understood, Admiral. She said thirty survivors; we can't fit them all in one vessel. Worf, have the shuttle bay prep two shuttles; have Utsvek meet me there," he said, and began to move toward the lift doors.

"Captain!" Worf called even as Picard said, "Will!"

Riker turned already knowing the objections he was about to hear, and shaking his head. "I'm still the best shuttle pilot on this ship," he reminded them, "and it's going to take the best to fly through that," he said, gesturing at the debris field that surrounded the floating ship. "Utsvek can follow me in," he said.

"Will, I'm as good a pilot as you were," Picard reminded him quietly, "and somewhat more expendable."

"You're a Starfleet admiral," Will countered.

"You're about to be a father," Picard replied.

Will hesitated; he had been ready for Worf's protests, ready to oppose all the same arguments he had always given to Picard about why he had to stay behind - but that sentence had never been one of his arguments.

He fell silent, then nodded soberly. "Utsvek will meet you in the shuttlebay; we'll monitor your progress and position from here."

Picard nodded, then stepped toward the lift. The doors opened to admit him, and he entered, turned to face his former junior officers and smiled.

Once more into the breach, he thought to himself.

One last time.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Picard strode into the shuttlecraft bay, his thoughts locked on the mission before him – and a renewed sense of purpose touching at his emotions.

It had been a long time since he had gone on a mission that had a real and tangible purpose, he thought, a sense of almost-forgotten enthusiasm rising, where the outcome was something he would know immediately – for good or ill, he added grimly.

And if it is to be for the good, he reminded himself, I can't allow myself to be affected by my emotions; those people on that ship do not know, nor do they care, that I've spent the last two years as a desk-bound admiral, dealing with little more than trivial political negotiations over inconsequential issues. All they care about is being rescued – and all I should be caring about is getting to them and getting them out of there.

Quashing his emotions, he stopped, quickly scanning the bay – then allowed himself a smile.

Will's crew was nothing if it wasn't efficient, he thought with a touch of pride; Will had given the order for the launch less than five minutes before, but already two of the ship's shuttlecraft had been moved to launch position, and, despite the early hour of the morning, two crews were hurriedly reading the vessels.

"Admiral," a voice called out.

Following the sound, Picard looked to one of the ships and watched as the deck officer stepped out from the rear hatch of one of the vessels. "Lieutenant," Picard replied.

"Sir, we've prepped the Feynman for you," the young officer explained. "Both vessels are equipped with a soft seal on the rear hatch, so once you've cut into the ship, you'll be able to dock with the opening. You won't be able to open the hatch, however, until you equalize pressure on the deck. We're installing air cylinders in each craft to accomplish the repressurization – but there's a limited capacity to each cylinder, sir. We can only pressurize a small area."

Picard nodded understandingly, then touched his commbadge. "Picard to Riker."

"Riker here, Admiral," Will's voice returned instantly.

"Will, any luck on identifying a location to attempt the burn-through on the hull?" he asked.

"Admiral, we've identified the vessel as an older Orion th'Kur class merchant ship – but there appears to have been modifications to the ship. We don't know what those modifications include," he admitted.

"Best guess," Picard directed.

"Our schematics for that class show a small storage area adjacent to the main corridor; you're carrying enough air to repressurize that space, sir," Will said.

"Have you been able to determine if the corridor has maintained atmospheric integrity?" Picard asked.

"No, sir. Area radiation is blocking our sensors; we can't get accurate pressure readings from within the ship," Will replied.

"So if we cut through the hull, repressurize the space, then find out the corridor has lost atmosphere, we're going to have to try again?" Picard said.

There was a long moment of silence, then Will replied quietly, "No, sir. We're running computer simulations that suggest that once we penetrate the hull, the ship's integrity will be irreparably compromised; the rupture will accelerate, and we won't have time to make a second attempt to penetrate the hull. As it is..."

"As it is, we'll be racing to get both ships in, docked and the passengers evacuated before the tear reaches engineering," Picard concluded for him.

"Yes, sir," Will replied grimly. "We're estimating that the resulting stressors on the hull will results in the rupture reaching the docking site twelve minutes from the time of the first cut," he said.

Twelve minutes! Picard gaped silently. Twelve minutes to cut through the ship, seal on, repressurize the space, find the survivors, evacuate half of them – then repeat the whole process?

It couldn't be done, Picard knew instantly.

"Will..."

"You'll go in first," Will said soberly. "Get as many out as you can, sir, and I'll have Utsvek follow with the second docking," he said.

And spare my conscience from the loss of those people, Picard knew. He would let one of his people go through the hell of forever knowing they couldn't have saved those other passengers, just to spare me that pain.

"No," Picard replied flatly.

"Sir," Will began to protest.

"No," Picard interrupted. "I'll go first – and Utsvek can dock onto the top hatch of my shuttle," Picard said. "We'll take half of the passengers up through the hatch, then Utsvek can seal up and separate the two vessels while I keep loading."

There was a moment of quiet conversation from the bridge, then Will replied, "Admiral, that idea is problematic. Our simulation shows the pressure of the vessels docked in that manner will put undue stress of the hull; the rupture will split the vessel almost instantly."

"Then Mr. Utsvek will have to remain in his vessel and counter the effect of our docking using maneuvering thrusters," Picard informed him – then glanced at the young man who had moved to join the two, his eyes wide in question.

The man thought for a moment – then nodded, touched his own commbadge and said, "It'll be tricky, sir, but I can do it," he said.

There was another moment of quiet, then Will said, "All right. Utsvek," he continued, "you'll have to cut through the hull; Admiral, you'll need to be in position to dock as quickly as possible. Once we start cutting..."

"We're aware of the situation, Captain," Picard replied somewhat gruffly.

The deck officer spoke up. "Sir, we've finished installation on the pressurization cylinders. As soon as I review the shuttlecraft controls with Admiral Picard, we'll be ready to launch the craft," he said.

"Notify the bridge when you're ready to launch," Will replied, then broke the connection.

The deck officer turned to the Starfleet admiral. "Sir, if you'll come with me, we can review the changes to the flight controls..." he began, only to be interrupted by the senior officer.

"That won't be necessary."

The officer looked at him, startled – and concerned. "Sir, there have been considerable changes to the flight controls..." he began.

"I'm familiar with the shuttlecraft, Lieutenant," he said gruffly.

"Yes, sir, but..."

"But we're wasting time," Picard concluded, then looked at Utsvek, who nodded his readiness.

Without a further word, the two moved to their ships, each striding up the lowered hatch, and triggering the closing mechanisms.

Picard quickly made his way to the front of the ship, nodding his approval once again at the efficiency of Will's crew.

The ship had been stripped of every piece of furniture and equipment; seats were gone, sensors were gone, control panels were gone – all taken away to maximize the number of people who could be forced into the small space.

Thirty survivors, the voice had said; fifteen into each of the two ships, he thought. It would be close quarters, he thought, and the ship's handling would be slow and sloppy; as treacherous as the journey in through the minefield would be, the journey out would be a hundred times more dangerous.

No wonder the deck officer has been concerned, Picard thought – then managed a wan smile. No, he admitted, the man was concerned because he thought I was an old fool, reliving the thrills of my earlier days, still thinking of myself as the hotshot shuttle pilot that I once was – and pulling rank in order to have one more chance at that glory, he thought.

But rank doth have its privileges, he thought amusedly; while the work of an admiral could be time consuming and arduous on occasion, it also gave him the benefit of ample time to himself – and access to vessels of all shapes and configuration.

In the year-and-a-half since he had stepped down from the center chair of the Enterprise, he must have logged more than a thousand hours in a shuttlecraft, he thought with a smile; when he had told Will that he was as good a pilot as Riker had been, he knew he was neither bragging nor exaggerating.

He settled into the left seat at the control console, noting the crew hadn't removed the other control seat; unlike the remaining seats, this chair was an integral part of the vessel, and removing it would taken more time than they had.

Well, at least one person is going to have a comfortable seat on the way back, he thought; as for the rest of the survivors, he would do everything he could to make their discomfort – and their trip - as short as possible.

He studied the board ahead of him, quickly confirming no major differences between the last vessel he had piloted back in San Francisco and this one, then signaled the deck commander of his readiness.

Utsvek's signal came a moment later, then Picard felt the ship's controls change, as the shuttlecraft was separated from the Enterprise's power systems and the gentle _thud_ of impact as the shuttlebay's tractor beams took hold of the small ship, then felt his weight shift as the ship was lifted up and guided out of the shuttlebay.

A moment later, and the small ship floated free of the Enterprise's control – and a similar sense of freedom washed over Picard.

He savored the sensation for a moment, enjoying the feeling of independence, of liberation, the sense of oneness with the vast areas of space surrounding him – then blew out a sigh and turned his mind to the mission.

Setting his preliminary course to the periphery of the minefield, he adjusted his sensors, letting them seek out the gravitic anomalies that indicated that one of the pieces of debris in the field had an atypical mass, then touched the communications control on the panel.

"Picard to Enterprise."

"Riker here, Admiral."

"I've set my preliminary course. Have Utsvek follow directly behind me; if he's too far back, the wake of the shuttle may move a mine into his path," he advised.

"I'm ten meters astern, Admiral," Utsvek advised Picard.

Ten meters? Picard thought, brows raised in surprise. That was damned close – close enough that if I make one mistake, we're both dead – and the passengers on that vessel dead along with us, he reminded himself.

But Will hadn't sent Utsvek on this mission because he was the next one on the duty roster, Picard reminded himself; he knew his officer's abilities as a pilot – and knew he was up to the assignment.

Just make sure you are, he told himself an instant later; you were just bragging how good you were – it's time to put your money where your mouth is.

"Proceeding into the field at one-eighth impulse," he said.

"That's pretty damned fast, Admiral," Will replied.

"We'll drop to maneuvering thrusters when we're deeper into the field, Will," Picard advised, "but we're going to move as quickly as possible out here if we're going to reach that ship before she breaks up," he continued.

"Understood. We're monitoring the system from our position; maintain your course for twenty-eight seconds, then adjust to..." There was a moment of hesitation, then, "oh seven eight mark three."

"Understood," Picard said, entering the numbers in his system. "Sensors show an anomaly three hundred meters off the port side," he informed them a moment later.

"We're narrowing our sensors to your target, Admiral," Will advised, "and... No detectable power signature, Admiral," he sighed, relieved. "Probably a dead mine."

Picard considered the idea. Despite having been known for hundred of years, and having been chartered more than a few times, the true nature of the For all they knew, the Trellians may have used dozens of types of mines within the field – and only those who had encountered them would know the true nature of each type. But having encountered them, he thought, they would not be in a position to relay that information to others.

Still, it had been more than a thousand years – and every power supply had its limits.

"We'll have to take that chance, Will – but keep an eye on the power signature; notify us if it changes as we pass by," he ordered.

He held his breath nonetheless, waiting until the ship had passed the anomaly, waiting for the Enterprise to comment on a change in the debris' status – then let it out with a soft exhalation.

One down – but how many to go? A hundred? A thousand? A million?

He didn't know – no one knew – but I can't let myself get caught up in the worrying, he chided himself.

"Anomaly five hundred meters ahead," Utsvek's voice called out.

"Can you detect a power signature on that one, Captain?" Picard asked.

"As long as you can read the target, our sensors can use those coordinates to focus the scans, sir," Will replied. "There's a signature on this one, Admiral," he added a moment later. "I'd advise caution."

"Agreed. Let's not pull it into our wake, Lieutenant," Picard warned the younger pilot. "Adjusting course to... seven three eight mark three; slowing to maneuvering thrusters," he added.

Maneuvering thrusters, Picard sighed. "Captain Riker," he called out, "give me at ETA at the Orion ship."

"At your new rate of speed, ninety-eight minutes," Will said.

And that wasn't allowing for the incidental change in course that they would have to make to avoid the mines ahead of them or the amount of time they would need to match their motion to that of the slowly rotating ship.

"Estimated time before the rupture hits the engineering section?"

There was a moment of silence, then, "Thirty-two minutes, sir."

We're not to make it, Picard realized; _they're_ not going to make it.

"We can't do this Will – not like this," he added.

He heard the silence that filled the bridge of the ship behind them, then heard Will's voice, low and pain-ridden. "Do you want to abandon the mission, Admiral?" he asked.

"No – but I have an idea. Would you run a simulation on what would happen if the Enterprise were to fire her phasers on a trajectory paralleling ours?"

"You wish to 'clear a path', Admiral?" Worf interjected.

"That was the idea, Mr. Worf," Picard countered dryly.

Picard could almost see Will nodding his agreement at the helmsman, giving him silent permission to try the idea, then heard his old friend's voice come back to him.

"We can do it sir – but at this range, sensors can't distinguish the power signatures. We've been using your specific targets to take readings – but there's just too much debris for us to do that from our position. We may just clear debris – or we could set off another mine," he said.

"I understand – but we're running out of time," Picard argued.

"I'd recommend running the phasers in incremental bursts until the region directly ahead of the shuttlecraft is cleared, then increasing power to clear the remaining path to the Orion vessel," Worf announced.

"Don't get too close to the other ship, Commander," Picard advised. "An explosion in that area may increase the rate of the ship's break-up."

"Understood," Word growled.

"Give us a moment," Will said, then warned, "Brace yourself; if we detonate a mine..."

Picard steeled himself, waiting for the blue beam of phased energy to pass him by – then quickly reminded himself that that same beam, when viewed through a port, would have none of the computer and sensor enhancements that made the stream appear visible on a viewscreen.

Instead, all he saw was a faint shimmer of disruption as the few atoms of matter that got in the path of the stream were reduced to pure energy and the small puffs of energy being released as the phaser found – and destroyed – the small pieces of debris in its way.

He didn't see the flash as the phaser beam hit the concealed mine; he didn't hear an explosion, didn't feel the heat as matter became energy or sense the sudden surge in radiation; all he saw was the side of the shuttle racing at his face – then felt the hull smash against his face.

"Admiral! Admiral Picard!"

Will Riker's voice slid into Picard's consciousness, the sound of his worry and his concern cutting through the fog that filled his mind far more effectively than the words did; hearing him – hearing his concern, Picard painfully pulled himself up from the floor of the shuttle, found his chair, shook his head, then touched the comm control.

"Picard here," he said.

"Admiral! Are you all right?"

Picard hesitated, raising a hand to the side of his head, then looked at his hand.

Blood, he realized – but not much; probably just a cut. He opened his mouth experimentally, then moved his jaw, and decided nothing there was broken.

He experimented in a similar fashion with his shoulder, then decided it wasn't broken either – just tender and sore.

"A little the worse for wear – but I'll hold up," he answered at last. "Lt. Utsvek?"

"The same," Will said. "It appears the phasers hit a mine..."

"Indeed," Picard agreed – then worriedly asked. "And the ship?"

"Hard to tell from this range, but there's no apparent change in their status," Will said. "Any damage to your shuttle, sir?"

Picard looked at the telltales, then ran a fast check on the remaining systems. "The same as her pilot, Captain – but she'll hold up," he said.

He could hear the soft chuckle from his former first officer, then heard him grow solemn again. "The phaser cleared the path to within two thousand meters of the ship – but we can't risk a closer shot," Will said.

"Agreed, Number One... Excuse me, Captain Riker," Picard said. "Lt. Utsvek and I will finish this up on our own."

"Yes, sir, Admiral," returned the voice of the other pilot. "Do you want me to take the lead?" he added.

"No; we'll stick to the plan we have. Let's increase to one-eighth impulse. "

"Yes, sir," Utsvek replied. "Sir," he added a moment later, "we're going to have to let them know what we're doing. Otherwise..."

Otherwise, we'll kill them when we cut into the hull, Picard thought.

"I've already thought about that, Lieutenant; we're going to knock on their door," he said.

"I'm sorry?" Utsvek replied.

Picard smiled to himself. "We'll knock. I'll use the thrusters to tap the shuttle against the hull of their ship. If there's an atmosphere remaining, they should be able to hear it."

"Yes, sir – but will they know what to do?" Utsvek replied.

"Not immediately – but they'll realize someone is out there – and as soon as they realize the hull is getting warm, I think they'll figure it out. Let's give them some credit, Lieutenant; they found a way to dump their warp core, push it to the edge of the Bryona field and perform a remote detonation – and all from a ship that's been blown to hell?" he said, then smiled to himself. "I think they'll figure out what to do."

"I hope you're right, sir," Utsvek answered.

As do I, Lieutenant; as do I.

And we'll know soon enough, he added, checking the computer; barring any further anomalies, we'll be there in just over five minutes.

Five minutes could be an eternity, though, when lives were in the balance, and Picard could almost feel each second slowly ticking by as they slowly moved toward the disabled ship, knowing that thirty lives were depending on them – and getting to the ship was only the first part of their mission.

Despite his rising anxiety, he forced himself to dismiss his emotions, then checked his speed, slowing until he reached a full stop.

Dear God, he thought, gaping at the devastated remains of the star-going vessel as it slowly spun through space; as bad as the damage had looked from the bridge of the Enterprise, there was something far more horrifying in seeing it up close – more horrifying, and more real.

This has been the end for too many ships, Picard thought; the end for too many people I knew. By error, by accident, by attack – this is the way life can end when you choose a life sailing between the stars.

But not for these people, he resolved – at least not today.

"Picard to Enterprise; give us coordinates for the burn through," he ordered.

As Worf called out the numbers, Picard rapidly plugged them into the small ship's navigation system. "I'm starting to matching rotation on the ship. Once I'm in place, I'll try to make contact with the ship so they're aware of out intentions."

"Admiral, any contact you make with the ship will affect its rotation," Worf reminded him.

"I'm aware of that, Mr. Worf," Picard replied – though whether a shuttlecraft would make a noticeable change was arguable.

Still, Picard prepared to back off to a safe distance should the rotation change significantly, and reminded his companion to be prepared for the same thing.

"And keep an eye of that rupture, Lieutenant; any change in the rate of rotation will affect the tear. If you detect any changes, tell me immediately," he ordered.

"Understood, Admiral. Good luck, sir," he added.

Picard nodded to himself, then slowly moved the Feynman close to the hull. Inches away, he fired the thrusters again, stopping the ship.

This was the tricky part, he told himself – then allowed himself a small smile. Well, the trickiest part, he amended; nothing on this mission would have qualified as easy.

Bur if it had been easy, he added, someone else would be out here. Indeed, he thought as he set the thruster firing pattern, that was not a bad summation for those who chose to face and accept the challenge that was a life in Starfleet: if it was easy, anyone could do it.

Putting aside the ruminations, he checked the ship's inertial dampeners, then murmured, "Let's hope someone in there is paying attention."

Let's hope that they're still alive, he added.

He tapped the thruster controls, setting the shuttle moving toward the far larger ship – then almost instantly fired the opposite thruster in order to cancel the motion – almost, but not quite.

The end result, Picard thought, would , hopefully, be a gentle 'tap' against the Orion's hull – powerful enough to reverberate through the ship's hull, but no so strong that it would further the rupture that was destroying the ship.

Unfortunately, one 'tap' would not be enough, he knew as well. In a debris field like this, the ship must have been hit more than a few times; the passengers would have become somewhat inured to the sound of random objects hitting the hull; it was going to take a few more hits – and in something close to a pattern – before those in the ship realized someone was trying to make contact with them.

He tapped the controls again, repeating the motion, his body jerking back and forth, jolted between his chair and the console.

One, he thought, one, two, three, five... It was a basic Fibonacci sequence, understandable by any intelligent being, regardless of language – but it was also one of growing complexity – and growing danger; next in the sequence was the number eight – but he had no idea if the Orion ship could handle that many hits.

I'm not sure _I_ can handle eight more, he admitted, feeling the bruises staring to form – and a vague nausea starting to build.

Too much bouncing back and forth, he knew – and too late a night, he added – and too old a man, he conceded. Space was a young man's game, Picard reminded himself: everyone knows that – except me.

But while a young man might have more stamina, he reminded himself firmly, he wouldn't have the knowledge and experience to pull off that last maneuver – and certainly not the knowledge to perform this one.

Moving the shuttle as close to the ship as he dared, he tapped the thrusters quickly, rocking the craft back and forth, rapidly beating out a tattoo against the other crafts hull.

Eight, he counted; thirteen was next in the sequence – but there was no way the Orion hull would stand up to that number of hits – and neither can I, he admitted.

Dizzy, nauseated from the rapid motion, he fell back against the seat, then touched the controls, backing the ship away from the hull. "Picard to Utsvek; I've done the best I can. If they didn't hear that sequence – or if they didn't realize what it meant – there's nothing more we can do. Hopefully, they'll have moved off."

"If not, they'll figure it out when the hull starts to warm up," Utsvek replied. "I'm targeting the hull; phasers on one-quarter power... beginning cutting sequence..."

A splash of light erupted as the phaser beam hit the ship, then the glow of metal turning to liquid - then vapor – then a gush of light as the beam penetrated the hull and the atmosphere within suddenly rushed into space.

Picard heard Utsvek gasp. "The phasers barely touched it, Admiral," he whispered in shock. "I thought Orion ships..."

"... usually have far thicker hull plating," Picard replied, shaking his head in regret. "They usually do, Lieutenant," he continued. "The ship's captain probably had the thickness reduced to increase engine efficiency," he explained.

Or sold it off and replaced it with thinner, lower grade hull plating, he added silently. That would explain why the ship had ruptured – and why that rupture was continuing to expand.

We should have realized something was inherently wrong with the ship when we saw the tear, Picard thought - but that would have required more detailed sensors readings than we could get in this radiation field.

That, he thought – and time.

And time was a luxury that those passengers didn't have.

Let's just hope they were able to understand our message and were able to get out of that area before we burned through, he added.

"Whatever damage we've caused, Lieutenant, we're committed now. Finish cutting into the hull; I'll move into position to dock," he told the man firmly. There would be time enough for blame and recriminations after they returned to the Enterprise, he continued silently.

"Yes, sir," Utsvek answered.

Picard ran his hands over the console, moving the shuttle away from the larger ship, then turning about, positioning the shuttle so that the rear hatch would be able to seal up to the new opening.

It would be a close thing, he reminded himself; too small an opening, and the hatch wouldn't be able to open onto the interior space – but too large, and the soft seal wouldn't be able to make an air-tight lock, and they wouldn't be able to repressurize the space.

But as he watched the opening into the Orion hull grow, he found his fears fading – and felt his chagrin growing. Will's people know what they're doing, he reminded himself – otherwise, he wouldn't have sent them on this mission.

Indeed, he added soberly, they were unquestionably more than capable of handling this entire mission without my help; it's been a long time since I was the best shuttle pilot in the 'fleet – and Will undoubtedly has people far more able than either of us were – or are.

Hubris, he added; over-weaning pride, he chastened himself – then added, and desperation.

Two years in the Admiralty has been too long; two years behind a desk, trapped in endless, meaningless negotiations; I've ached to be at the heart of the action once again – but to put myself here, over better qualified people just to fulfill that ache?

Space is a young man's game, he reminded himself – and I'm not young any more. It's time to accept that, he thought angrily; accept it – and stop trying to regain what I gave up long ago.

"Admiral," Utsvek's voice interrupted, "I'm preparing to make the final cut. I'll be through the hull in twelve seconds. Are you ready to move into position?"

"Ready," Picard replied gruffly, pushing away the swell of self-pity, focusing his thoughts, his actions, his emotions on the job ahead of him.

There would be time enough to face the truth when this was over.

He ran his hands over the controls, adjusting his position, his eyes locked on the monitor, watching as the phaser continued its path, the outline of a trapezoid developing as the beam charred the hull of the ship.

A moment later, then beam reached its starting point, the shape completed, and the glow of the scorched metal began to fade.

Picard watched for a moment, giving the superheated metal a moment to cool, then carefully positioned the shuttle in front of the shape, and fired the thrusters to press the shuttle against the hull.

He felt the satisfying thud of the two ships touching – then giving the thrusters a small touch, felt a second, smaller thus as the hull plate fell into the Orion's ship.

Tapping the control panel once again, he heard a soft hiss as the soft seal deployed, then watched as the tell-tale on his board turned green. He touched another control then listened to the hiss of the pressurization tanks emptying into to open space.

If the hull was secure, he told himself, the computer will give me a go-ahead; if not...

If not, they would have no way of reaching the survivors – if there were any, he added. Admittedly, he and Utsvek could don EV suits and enter the ship – but there was no way to bring unsuited passengers out through a vacuum.

For a minute he held his breath, anxiously waiting for the computer to signal that there was enough pressure in the space for him to open the hatch – but as the moments passed, he found himself beginning to worry. Surely the deck should have repressurized by now, he thought – then watched as the shuttle's control board suddenly – relievedly, joyously – turned green.

"We have pressure, Lieutenant; beginning docking procedures with the shuttle, and prepare to bring the passengers on board."

"Aye, Admiral," Utsvek replied.

They had made it, he thought – then checked every emotion; time was still working against them – and if they didn't evacuate the ship before that rupture made it to this deck, they would all die. Hurriedly, touching the hatch control, he stood up, made his way to the rear of the ship, watched as the shuttle opened onto the Orion ship's deck, and stepped out.

And slowly, carefully, raised his hands.

A young man, little more than boy, filthy, dressed in ragged, hard-worn clothes, stood before him, a phaser rifle in his hands and aimed directly at Picard, and a look of distrust and anger on his face.

"K'sh ema," he growled.

It took Picard a moment to recognize the word – Cardassian slang for 'slaver' – then shook his head. Slowly, he replied, "Starfleet."

The boy studied him for a moment, then, without looking away, called out, "Ik'shma Starfleet."

It took him a moment to realize that someone else was in the room, looking him over, trying to confirm his identity – then he felt a wave of relief as he heard a second voice – a woman's voice call back, "Ke efto uesa me, S'bey."

To Picard's relief, the boy dropped the weapon, turned and hurried back to the second voice, took a blanket-wrapped something from her, then ran to Picard, pressing it into his hands before hurrying back.

Picard stared at the item – then realized in stunned horror what he was holding: a Cardassian child's body.

He gaped at it for a moment, then pressed a finger against the child's neck – and felt a faint, soft thrum as blood coursed through the artery.

Asleep, he thought – or unconscious from the cold, he added, feeling a distinct shiver run through his own body.

The woman, clad in an EV suit that was missing its headpiece hurried, toward the young man, another bundle in her arms – and Picard instantly understood.

Some of the passengers – perhaps all but these two – were incapacitated, by the cold, by illness of injury – but for whatever reason, they couldn't move themselves. These two – and God knew how many more in the corridor outside this small storage room – were forming the equivalent of an old-style bucket brigade, moving each passenger forward until they could be put on the shuttle.

And we'll have to do the same, he thought. Turning, he hurried back toward the shuttle, only to hear Utsvek calling to him.

"It appears most of these people are unconscious or injured, Lieutenant," Picard advised him. "We'll have to carry them. I'll lift them up to you; anyone too large to lift will stay on the Feynman," he added.

Utsvek hesitated, then replied, "I won't be able to maintain counterthrust to offset the pressure to the hull if I'm away from the controls, sir."

"Then we're just going to have to hope we can move them before the rupture reaches us," Picard countered grimly.

"Yes, sir," the man replied.

Picard turned, stepped into the Feynman, moved to the docking hatch that joined the two ships – and handed the child up to Utsvek.

The young man stared at the bundle, then gaped, "It's... a baby!"

"Somewhat older than that, Lieutenant. Set her down in as safe a place as you can; I'll continue to hand them up to you for as long as you have space for them," Picard added.

"Yes, sir," Utsvek replied, still staring at the child – then hurried to find a place to put her down.

Obviously not a man who was familiar with handling small children, Picard thought – but then again neither am I.

Picard turned to return to the deck, but the young Cardassian man was already there, two children bundled in his arms this time.

"By God," Picard murmured, "more children. What the hell kind of ship is this?" he asked himself.

The young man stared at him for a moment, then smiled. "Komiada zumadeki," he said.

Whatever the hell that meant, Picard thought, taking the remark for another display of Cardassian slang – then realized that while he had no idea what the boy had said, the boy had understood him.

On another day, in another place, he would have thought nothing more of the fact; universal translators were the norm in Starfleet, after all. But this was not a Starfleet vessel, he reminded himself; this was a down-on-its-luck, barely-scraping-by merchant vessel – and if her captain had had to sell the ship's usually impervious hull plating just to keep in business, then he would have sold whatever translator systems he had long before that.

No, that boy had understood Standard, he thought – and considering the way he was dressed, he had not learned it at one of the few elite, upper class schools on Cardassia that taught the language.

One of Zumell's? he wondered, then pushed back the idea; it was something to investigate once they were back on the Enterprise.

He took the two small burdens, then lifted them carefully to Utsvek.

The three continued for several minutes, until Utsvek called out, "I've got eighteen, sir – and I'm almost out of space."

"Close the seal, and separate. Hold position until I'm clear, and then we'll move out as we came in," he added.

"The ships are going to be heavy, sir," Utsvek advised him.

"That's all right, Lieutenant. We're not going to be a hurry to get out."

"Yes, sir," Utsvek replied. "Sealing the hatch."

Picard nodded, wishing that the man could have remained, helping to load what remained of the passengers – but that would only be putting those lives at risk. Even if the hull ruptured now, the mission would be a success; they had saved more than half of the people.

Children, he amended, still more than a little surprised by the lack of adults among this bunch.

Then again, perhaps I shouldn't be surprised, he considered. Perhaps the children had been playing together when the ship hit the mine, he mused; perhaps the parents had been in one of the sections that was first hit by the rupture – or even on the bridge when it was destroyed.

In any case, they were the survivors – these children, the young man, the woman and whoever else was helping carry the children out of the engineering bay.

When the boy returned a moment later, however, the children were anything but infants; two young girls, barely teenagers, Picard thought, were with the young man, each carrying a child in each arm – and, he realized, a child within themselves.

He gaped for a moment – then felt a shudder run through the deck.

Utsvek breaking free, he thought – then felt a second, far more ominous quiver and heard the groan of metal shearing.

"Quickly," he barked at them. "The ship's falling apart!"

The boy translated the message – or at least its intent – to the girls, who doubled their pace, hurrying into the shuttle, each taking a seat on the floor of the shuttle, pulling the smaller children closer, wrapping the worn blankets that covered them tightly around the group.

"Keep going!" he snapped, racing on the young man's heels to reach the next group.

More children – but older now, more able to walk despite shivering and shaking limbs; he grabbed the closest two, picking them up, and racing back to the shuttle, then turned to see the young man herding another group toward him – and the EV suit-clad woman racing up behind the boy, another child in each arm.

"That's it!" she shouted at him. "That's everyone! Let's get out of here!"

Picard nodded, turning, stepping quickly over and around the gathering crowd, then taking his place at the controls.

He put his hand on the hatch control, looking back to make sure that everyone was clear of the entryway – but the woman had already slapped at the release mechanism; with the hush of a hydraulic system engaging, he heard the door shut.

One down – but we're not out of the woods yet, he reminded himself; as long as we're still sealed to the ship, if it ruptures, we could go down as surely as if we were still aboard.

He touched another control, felt the seal give way, then watched the board signal that they were finally clear.

He gave a sigh of relief, then slowly pulled the shuttle away from the ship.

"Picard to Utsvek; we're clear. Proceeding back to the Enterprise. Inform Captain Riker that we have..." He risked a look back at the passengers, searching out their apparent leader.

The woman was moving from child to child, checking each one, apparently soothing whatever fears they might have – to his relief, he admitted, surprised by the relative quiet in the ship.

"How many?" he called out in Standard, realizing that she had spoken in that language.

"Thirty-five," she called back. "Thirty-seven with S'bey and me," she amended.

"Advise Captain Riker that we have thirty-seven survivors. Have Sickbay standing by; two of the passengers are pregnant," he added. "Estimated time of arrival: eighty-seven minutes."

"I'll advise the Enterprise," Utsvek replied, then closed the link between the ships.

Picard turned his attention to the board, setting a cautious path back out of the field, barely noticing when the woman eased her way into the right hand seat.

"Damn!" she murmured at him as she settled in. "Sending an admiral on a rescue mission – and in dress uniform at that! They must be getting really tough on everyone in Starfleet. I'm glad I got out when I did," she added.

Astounded, he turned to face her – and felt his stomach drop.

"Hello, Jean-Luc," she said softly, shyly.

He stared at her, then finally managed a word.

"Dee."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Dee.

He stared at her.

She looked like hell, he thought – worn, pale, her hair matted, filthy, the formerly long tresses raggedly cut, the clothes beneath the EV suit equally worn; she was filthy, scrawny, her eyes dark and sunken with exhaustion; he hadn't seen her for almost two years, and he could see every minute of those days on her face. She looked like hell, he thought.

She was the most beautiful thing he had every seen.

"Hi," she said.

"Hello," he replied.

Andile smiled at him, then cocked her head, studying him curiously. Reaching out, she touched the insignia on the collar of his uniform.

"Admiral?" she asked, seemingly surprised.

He nodded.

"When?"

"Almost three years," he answered.

She considered that for a moment, then shook her head. "You didn't mention it," she said.

"You left before I had a chance to say anything," he replied quietly.

"I had to. You would have made me go back with you."

He nodded. "It wasn't a safe place for you."

"I know," she said softly – then shook her head.

He stared at her, then growled angrily, "Damn it, Dee, what were you thinking?! I barely managed to get you out of that jail..." he started – only to be cut off as S'bey moved between the two.

"E kazamo kiada!" he snapped at the man, pointing at Andile. "E kazo kanamate! Vu kami igha to k'rtya! Zakimo kema e te!" he raged.

"S'bey!" she snapped.

He fell silent – but the expression on his face continued to speak as loudly as his words had.

"S'bey," she repeated, her voice softening, "S'bey, this is my friend. More than a friend," she added softly. "He is the one who got me out... out of..." Her voice faltered, and S'bey, instantly concerned, put a hand on her shoulder.

"Komiada," he said quietly.

For a moment, she did nothing – then shook off the memory. Looking up at the man, she smiled, reached up and patted his hand, then nodded toward the children. "Don't worry about me," she said. "I'm fine."

"Ji frin gy to te," he said worriedly, then squeezed her shoulder, turned and moved back toward the children – but keeping a cautious eye on the two adults.

"Komiada?" Picard asked.

She gave a shrug. "Another name to add to my collection. I couldn't be Andile on Cardassia – that name had a history and a danger - so I used my Romulan name: Komianda Tironbyaj – except that was more than the little ones could handle. It became Komiada."

"Ah," Picard said, then turned his attention to S'bey. "And the young man?"

Andile followed Picard gaze, then looked at Picard. "S'bey. My bodyguard," she explained.

Picard glanced back at the boy, then back at Andile. "Your bodyguard," he echoed.

"Well, my protector," she amended. "He's been with me for a few years, ever since..."

"Ever since," he echoed.

She ignored him, trying not to hear the hurt – or the worry – in his voice. "He was... like all of them. Living in the streets... trying not to die in the streets... I found him. I thought I was going to save him... and then he ended up saving me. He's been at my side ever since," she said.

"Bodyguard," Picard repeated, studying the boy intently, then looked back at Andile. "And that's all he is?"

"That's all," she said.

Picard glanced at the boy once more only to find the young man looking right back at him. He looked back at Andile.

"Does he know that?" he asked.

She smiled – then grew serious.

"I'm sorry I left you that night," she said, "but... I couldn't go with you. I couldn't leave them."

He glanced over his shoulder at the children, then looked back at the woman seated beside him. "Them?"

Andile followed his gaze back to the children, smiled at them beatifically, then looked back. "No. Not them. But others like them," she added.

"The Chiemma," he said.

She nodded.

He studied her for a moment, looked back at the children, then back at Andile. "You've done this before," he said. It wasn't a question.

She nodded again. "This is the third time," she said.

He frowned, closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head. "You went back to Cardassia three times," he said.

"More than that," she said. "It takes time, connections – money – to arrange to get them off world. And finding a ship..." She shook her head.

He gave her a moment, using the time to make a minute adjustment to the shuttle's course, then looked back.

"What happened back there?" he asked.

Andile shrugged. "The captain... an Orion... was the only one I could find who was willing to take us from Cardassia to Charon."

"The Chiemma are on Charon?" Picard interrupted, surprised.

"No. Not Charon. Somewhere else. Someplace safe – for all of us," she added quickly.

Meaning outside the Federation, Picard realized.

She smiled wearily. "They can't stay in Cardassian space; I can't stay in Federation space. It leaves quite a lot of the galaxy open to us – but finding a place, finding someone to move us there..." She shook her head. "Reputable pilots won't do it; it breaks too many laws – and the consequences are just too dire. But I knew the Orion was in desperate straits – and we were his last chance.

"As he was ours," she admitted. "I had to risk using him and his ship, even I knew neither was trustworthy, but I didn't have a choice. Mshara and Usmet – those two girls," she said, looking over her shoulder and the blanket-covered girls and smiling at them reassuringly, "were getting close to delivering their babies – and there was no help for them on Cardassia, no one willing or able to help a Chiemma. But they're too young, Jean-Luc, to have babies without a medical care," she said plaintively.

"And you have medical care for them... where you're going?" he pressed.

Andile looked at him blankly, then finally shook her head. "No. Not yet. I've been trying to find a doctor, but without money, the only ones who have been willing to come with me have been those who can't practice on Cardassia or in Federation space. I don't necessarily want them caring for my children," she admitted, "but I may not have any choice," she admitted. "Asking someone to move to... our world... is expensive – and I just don't have the funds."

"I thought Tiron..." Picard began.

She shook her head, stopping him before he could continue. "Tiron... is another story. He... I... I don't want to talk about him," she said, then hurriedly changed the topic. "I was desperate – but the Orion captain was even more desperate. He decided to run the Bryona field to save on fuel – trying to maximize his profits, I guess," she sighed.

"It didn't work," Picard replied.

"You noticed," she smiled – then grew sober. "I don't know what happened up there, Jean-Luc; he threw me off the bridge..."

"Fortunately," he countered.

"Yes, but if I had been there, I might have..."

"Dee?" he interrupted.

She looked at him.

"You can't save everyone," he reminded her. "If you had been up there, you would have died – and so would have they," he said, motioning toward the children behind him. "If you hadn't dumped the warp core, sent it to the periphery of the field and performed a remote detonation, we would not have known your ship was in the Bryona field – and that's something they couldn't do without you," he continued – then managed a smile. "In retrospect, I should have realized it would take someone of your engineering acumen to pull off a stunt like that," he said.

"And I should have realized it was you – knocking on the door like that," she said, smiling. "We thought it was a slaver ship."

Picard nodded at S'bey. "That explains the phaser rifle."

She blushed. "A little bravado on S'bey's part; it was completely discharged – couldn't have hurt a fly. We used the last of the charges to warm the deck plates."

He raised a brow. "I wouldn't call it bravado; I'd call it damned courageous," he said, bowing his head at the boy.

"He's quite the young man," she said quietly, adding, "I thank the gods I have him – and I thank the gods we weren't in that section when you cut in," she added. "Think you could have gone through the hull a little faster?"

"The plating was thinner than we anticipated," Picard apologized.

"Tell me about it," she sighed in commiseration. "That's why we weren't out there," she answered. "Not because we heard your pounding on the ship – very clever, by the way, using a Fibonacci sequence - but because as soon as I realized the hull was tearing itself apart, I moved us as far toward the interior as I could," she said, then looked back at the children worriedly. "I need to check on them," she said. "Cardassians weren't made to handle that amount of cold – and there may be a problem with radiation exposure as well; the shielding around that core was almost as thin as the hull plating."

"I'll increase the heat in here..."

"No," she said quickly, "and let your other pilot know not to do it, either. If they are hypothermic, then you don't want the extremities warming and pumping heated blood into the core organs – it could kill them. Staying cold a little longer won't do any more damage than it already has," she said.

"I'll inform Lt. Utsvek and the Enterprise's medical team," Picard said. "We'll be back on the Enterprise in..." he glanced at the computer screen, "eighty minutes. Sickbay will be standing by for them."

"Thanks," she said, then glanced around the stripped-down shuttle. "I don't suppose you have a med kit on board?" she asked.

"In the wall plate by the back hatch," he answered.

"Ah," she nodded, then looked at him worriedly. "Should I check you over first?" she asked.

He frowned, puzzled.

She reached to his forehead, touching him gently, then pulled back her hand to reveal blood on her finger tips.

"It's nothing," he replied. "A mine went off as we made our approach."

She nodded – then glanced around the shuttlecraft. "You've beefed up the hull plates, then?" she asked curiously.

"Starfleet has managed to survive in your absence," he replied acerbically – and instantly regretted the sharp retort. "Dee..." he began.

She shook her head. "Don't, Jean-Luc," she said sharply – then softened her tone. "What happened, happened – and we all moved on." Still, she watched him for a moment, then reached out, her hand moving to his shoulder, squeezing it gently. "But thank you," she said – then turned back to him, studying him as though seeing him for the first time. "For coming for me, now... and then. If you hadn't..." she started, then fell silent.

He nodded, unsure of what to say – then nodded back at the children. "Go on," he said, gently dismissing her, watching as she moved back to S'bey, back to the children, then turned his attention to his work.

Work was easier than thinking about her, he knew; work was easier than thinking about what she had meant to him once; work was easier than remembering what the last years had been like, missing her, wondering where she was, and wondering if she was alive... or dead.

Anger surged up in him, anger at her for what she had done – and hadn't done, anger at the situation that had forced her into those actions – and anger at himself for not having protected her from that situation.

I was her captain, I was her superior officer, I was... her friend – and I failed her as all of those things, he thought, as I have failed everyone else.

A faint wail of a waking child broke through the wave of self-pity; he glanced over his shoulder, watching as Andile and S'bey hurriedly moved to the child's side, one consoling the toddler as the other quickly, quietly, moved the medical scanner over the child.

They were a good team, Picard thought as he watched the two worked together. Strange, he thought; I always thought of Dee as such an isolationist, such a loner... seeing her working with... What did she say his name was? S'bey? Seeing her working so easily, so smoothly with S'bey seemed almost out of character for the woman he had known four years ago... but the woman he had known had been forced into that isolation, first by her own people, then by the necessities of her own mind – then by the necessities of her work within the Federation, he reminded himself.

But she had lost that compulsion to be alone, lost that thought that she was not deserving of human companionship and affection, he knew – and in part because of what he had done.

No, not what I did, he corrected himself, but what we did – together. We were friends, companions in adversity, fellow officers... together, we helped each other find a better way for ourselves within the society in which we lived and worked; just because I couldn't hold on to that way for myself doesn't mean that I should criticize her because she could.

Not that I did that much to help her find that way, he added; she had always been a superb leader – but a leader who led from within, rather than from the outside. Her juniors rarely saw her as a superior, but rather as one of their ranks, an equal member of the team with whom they could – and did – work.

Is it any wonder that she would work so well as an equal with this young man? he asked himself. After all, didn't she and Data make a magnificent team when they...

Data, he realized with a start.

Dear God, Data.

Data was alive – and Dee didn't know.

Excited, he turned to tell the woman – then stopped himself.

This wasn't the way, he told himself; right now, her thoughts were where they needed to be – with her charges... her children, he amended. Let her focus on this – and her deal with that news when this situation was under control.

Will, however should be told about the nature of this visitor, he thought, reaching for the console once again – and, once again, he stopped himself.

Yes, Will should be told – but not like this. To say her name over subspace would be dangerous – and to openly reveal it to the bridge crew would be an act of sheer folly. Andile had 'died' with a charge of treason levied against her – a charge that had never been dropped, despite four years of legal action on the part of the Enterprise's former and present captains. To advertise that name, even here, in the remote depths of space, was to run a risk that none of them could afford.

Still, Will had to know, he thought; as captain of a Federation vessel, he had to be made aware of the political ramifications he was facing if he permitted an accused treasoner on his ship and failed to arrest her.

He touched the console. "Picard to Riker."

"Riker here. Go ahead, Admiral."

"Captain, I have a report on the condition of the passengers. The majority appear to be suffering from hypothermia and possible radiation exposure. Will, advise your medical team that the children are Cardassian..."

"Cardassian?" Will replied, stunned. "What the hell are the Cardassians doing in Federation space?"

Picard didn't answer the rhetorical, listening instead as Will barked out questions to his bridge crew.

"Check permit records for Orion vessels in this area. See if they were granted permission for the transportation of Cardassians through Federation space," he called out, then turned his attention back to the communications system. "Admiral, did any of the crew survive?"

Picard shook his head. "No. From what I can gather, it was a one-man ship; apparently the captain was on the bridge when the mine hit. Unfortunately, we didn't have time to download the ship's logs," he added.

Presuming they weren't destroyed in the explosion – and presuming the Orion even kept logs, he added, suspecting that, had that captain done so, he would have altered the records to protect himself.

Will sighed. "Well, it's too late to do anything about that now. I'm not going to risk sending another ship into the minefield just to pull those logs."

"Agreed. You might also want to consider destroying the ship so that no one else is tempted to go after them or the ship," Picard suggested.

"Agreed," Will said – and Picard could almost see the smile crossing the man's face as he remembered a similar situation that had almost killed them all. "Once you're clear of the area, I'll have Worf target the ship with a photon torpedo."

Picard heard the two men speak for a moment, Worf's low voice barely audible, but his pleasure at taking a nostalgic turn at the weapons controls unmistakable.

"What about the survivors?" Will continued a moment later, changing the topic. "Can any of them give us information about the ship, and what it was doing in this area of space?"

Picard smiled to himself. "One of the survivors is an adult, Will; I think she'll be able to help you with some answers," he said.

"Good. I'll meet you and her in the shuttlebay," Will said.

"Make it Sickbay, Will," Picard requested.

Will hesitated, the question on his lips – but he held his silence, knowing his former captain well enough to know there was a reason he wasn't divulging more information over the communications system – and trusting him enough not the press the issue. "Understood, Admiral," he agreed. "Do any of the passengers need to be beamed directly to Sickbay?" he added.

Picard turned, looking over his shoulder at the woman.

As he had expected, she shook her head in negation without even bothering to look at him. "Hypothermia, radiation exposure... they're going to need treatment, but they're not in immediate danger," she said as she looked down at one of the children.

"What about you? S'bey?"

"We're fine," she replied instantly.

"Kue itsma hytu kovek mia," S'bey countered.

"I said I'm fine," she snapped back.

S'bey looked at him. "Kue itsma hytu kovek mia os du," he repeated, pointing at Andile. "Vo kani ma se," he added.

Picard nodded, having no idea what the boy had said – but knowing Andile well enough to make a salient guess. "Don't worry; we'll get her to Sickbay, too," he said.

S'bey nodded his approval.

"None of the passengers need to be beamed aboard, Captain – but you're going to need some hands to help move them. Most of the children are unconscious."

"I've got medical teams standing by, Admiral. We're ready for you."

"We'll be there shortly," Picard replied. "Picard out," he added, tabbing the control, then turning to look at the pair once more.

"Anything else you need?" he asked.

She looked up from the child as whose side she knelt – and graced him with one of her smiled. "No. We're good. Just... take me home, Jean-Luc," she said with a sigh of relief.

He nodded, then turned his attention back to his board.

Home, she had said; he smiled to himself as her words ran through his mind again.

That's how I see the Enterprise as well, he thought – as my home.

Maybe that's why I ached to come back to her – because she was my home for long – and her crew, my family.

But those days were gone, he reminded himself; the Enterprise was Will's ship, her crew were his now – and what had been his home for so long had gone the way of all things – on to others.

And yet, he thought, maybe that's what I've been searching for, for so long. Not the Enterprise, per se, but rather a place to call my own, to live out these last few years, a place to end my days.

I, too, want to go home.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"Shuttle Feynman, hold at your present coordinates, thrusters to station-keeping; we'll bring you in on tractors," came the briskly efficient voice of the shuttlebay deck officer, followed by a hasty, "if that's all right with you, Admiral."

Picard smiled to himself, remembering – distantly – that he had too, once been that young, and had once thought Starfleet admirals were to be feared as beings of omnipotent power, and to risk their wrath was to risk your career.

Little did either of them know at that age how little power admirals truly held – and how difficult it was to use.

Abusing power, on the other hand, was a far simpler matter, he conceded – but torturing junior officers was not his style.

"Feynman holding these coordinates, waiting for tractors," he acknowledged.

The relief in the young man's voice was almost palpable. "We'll bring you in as soon as Lt. Utsvek's shuttle has cleared the bay, sir," he said.

"Understood," Picard agreed, looking into the open shuttlebay, watching as the other craft was eased into position through the force field and promptly flooded by more than a dozen people, all ready to tend to the unlikely survivors of the doomed Orion ship.

More kudos to Will and his people he thought; it had to be four in the morning, and still he had managed to have staff ready to move the children off the shuttle and into Sickbay.

Then again, he thought, I would have expected nothing less from my own people; why should I think it so remarkable that Will expects the same from his? Expect the best from your with people, give them the tools and training to do the best, to be the best that they can be – and you will not be disappointed, he reminded himself, recalling the words of one of his own instructors from years before.

"Maybe you should have become a teacher," came Andile's soft voice over his shoulder.

He looked back at her, startled by her voice, then gave a wan smile. "I was beginning to think you had lost your ability to read my thoughts," he replied. "It's been a long time since I've sensed you up here," he said, tapping the side of his head with his index finger.

She smiled back, shaking her head. "It's called finesse, my dear admiral. You're not _supposed_ to know I'm there. Why? Did you miss me?"

"Hardly," he countered. "I was just remembering how difficult it was for you when we first met."

"I was sick..."

"You were dying," he corrected her.

"All right, I was dying, and 'pathing took every iota of strength I had. But I've recovered. More than recovered," she amended. "Not only have I not lost my abilities, but they've improved..."

"A terrifying prospect," he interrupted.

"... but," she said, ignoring him, "the children are terribly sensitive to telepathic touch. Probably their fragile condition," she considered, "so I have had to learn to make it as gentle, as non-intrusive as possible. Of course, I can turn it up as well – which, as you can imagine, has been a godsblessing in the last few years. I can calm them en masse, reassure them, let them know they can trust me..." she said.

Picard looked past her at the still sleeping children, nodding approvingly.

"I do not, however, use it to control them," she chided him. "They're asleep because they're cold, tired... maybe sick," she added worriedly.

"Sick?" he said, instantly concerned.

"Orion ships in good condition shed lots of radiation, but the Mahkto was anything but spaceworthy. If the condition of the hull was any indicator about the maintenance and upkeep on the Mahkto, the children probably got some pretty heavy doses while we were in Engineering," she explained. "Your med scanners weren't reconfigured for Cardassian physiology, but I can read the scan well enough to know they're going to need treatment," she said with an anxious sigh.

"I can have them transported directly to Sickbay..." he began.

She shook her head. "Not necessary; none of them is puking up their guts, so whatever we're facing, it's not terminal – yet. Five minutes won't make a difference," she said, oblivious to Picard's expression of revulsion at the thought of the children being sick on his shuttlecraft. "I'm more worried about long term damage. Cancer, genetic mutations..."

"Those are treatable, Dee," he reminded her.

"Not where we're going," she said with a sigh. "Not yet, at least." She hesitated, then looked at the two pregnant girls. "I'm most worried about them. Their babies are at a stage in their development where they are vulnerable to chromosomal damage; they could be born damaged, or stillborn..." She sucked in a sharp breath – and Picard could feel the slight sense of fear that had been in the back of his thoughts suddenly disappear.

He started slightly, and she raised her head to look at him, giving him a half-apologetic look. "Sorry about that. I was beginning to project – and I don't want them to feel my concern."

"Quite understandable," he said. "Obviously you must do what you feel best for these children."

"That's magnanimous of you – considering you tried to take me off Cardassia so I couldn't do anything for them," she snapped back.

Picard raised a brow in surprise at the sharpness of her unexpected retort. "I didn't know..."

"Sorry, sorry," she said hastily, raising a hand to stop him. "That was a cheap shot. I didn't mean it. You didn't know... of course, you didn't ask, either," she reminded him.

"You weren't coherent when I carried you out of that jail," he reminded her sharply. "And you ran off before I _could_ ask what the hell you were doing," he countered. "But damn it, Dee! Cardassia?" he snapped.

"Yes, Cardassia!" she snapped back.

One of the two girls made a soft sound, clearly distressed at the argument; S'bey moved to her side, quietly trying to explain, to soothe the young woman – and flashing Picard a furious glare.

For a moment, Picard felt tempted to give the upstart young man the sharp tongue-lashing he deserved – then just as quickly felt the urge disappear.

It took him a moment to realize what had happened – what was happening – then he turned to look at his adversary of the previous moment.

"Sorry, sorry," she apologized again, then turned to S'bey and repeated the apology. Looking back at Picard, shook her head. "I... apologize. I'm..."

"Upset, exhausted... sick," Picard completed for her.

She gave him a perplexed look. "Sick?"

"Radiation," he said. "If the children were exposed, so were you," he reminded her.

"Yes, but I'm impervious to mere mortal injuries," she reminded him with a tired smile.

"Impervious?" he said derisively. "Hardly."

She shrugged. "Okay, so I was exposed – probably more so, since I was up on the bridge after the explosion..."

Which explained the EV suit, Picard thought.

"...but unlike them, I can heal – and without medical intervention."

"With rest, food, relaxation – none of which, I presume, you've not had for some time," he countered.

"Cluck, cluck, Admiral," she replied caustically. "Don't be a mother hen – it doesn't suit you. But," she shrugged, conceding a point, "I am a little tired. I can't remember the last time I slept," she admitted. "Cardassia, maybe – a week ago? Gods, has it only been a week since we left? It feels like a lifetime. It almost was," she added, her voice dropping to almost nothing.

She hesitated for a moment, then forced a smile to her face – but the lips that bore it were trembling. "You know, I was beginning to think we might not... But we did," she hurriedly added, her resolving firming as quickly as it had started to crumble. "Once again, you and the Enterprise came to the rescue. Have you considered upgrading from a dress uniform to shining armor?"

"Indeed – but finding space for the requisite white horse is difficult, even in the spacious quarters granted to an admiral," he answered dryly.

"Too bad," she said with a sigh of feigned disappointment. "It would suit you."

"Perhaps, but it might be unwieldy while working a dig," he replied.

Andile gave him a curious – and interested – look. "A dig?"

Picard nodded. "That's why I'm on the Enterprise; Will..."

"Will Riker?" she said. "Gods, when you said Captain Riker, I didn't realize..."

Picard nodded. "He's captain of the Enterprise now," he said.

"Good for him! And he and Deanna...?" she asked, brows raised.

"They did get married," he confirmed. "Just before Data..." He stopped, his voice falling at the memory that still stung his soul – and undoubtedly hers as well, he reminded himself. "My turn to apologize," he said. "I didn't mean to..."

"You didn't," she interrupted, shaking her head. "I came to terms with Data's death a long time ago, Jean-Luc. I just glad he got to see them married. He told me he was planning on singing at the wedding..."

" 'Blue Skies' ."

Andile frowned. "I'll bet Worf hated that. He never was a fan of Irving Berlin."

"You can ask him yourself," Picard offered.

"_He's_ on the Enterprise?" she asked, amazed.

"First officer," he answered.

Andile's eyes widened – but the expression she wore contained something more than joy at hearing that her old friends were close at hand – but all she said was, "And after all those arguments about how he wasn't suited for command," she sighed – then smiled up at Picard. "You, Will, Deanna, Worf... By the gods, it'll be like 'old home week' on the Enterprise."

"Only for a few days," he demurred. "As I was saying..."

A chirp from the shuttle's comm system interrupted the reminiscing. "Shuttle Feynman, prepare for tractor lock on."

"Get your people settled in," he said, touching her shoulder, directing her attention to the children, "then come join me. I don't want you falling and breaking a bone when the tractors pull us in," he said.

"Aye, aye, Admiral, sir," she replied, snapping a salute at him, then turning her attention to S'bey and the young women, quickly informing them what was happening, then hurried to take her seat beside him.

For a moment, the two rode in silence, moving with the soft jerks and hesitations that the tractor beams always seemed to impart on their targets.

"You know, much as it's good to be back, being on the Enterprise not be the best idea," she said hesitantly.

He looked at her, astounded, then mockingly murmured, "I can always take you back to your ship..."

"That's not what I meant," she answered. "But... Worf is on board, Will's on board, Deanna... Who else from your Enterprise – from the Enterprise on which I served – are still there?" she asked.

"I don't know. More than a few; many of my people stayed on with Will..." he began – then stopped, realizing what she was saying.

"And all those people think I'm dead," she said – then looked at him. "They can't know I'm alive, Jean-Luc."

He nodded, understanding. "Unfortunately, we can't hide you away. Your... children..." he used the word hesitantly, awkwardly, "...are going to need you. I presume you have some sort of legal guardianship over them?"

"I have documents that suggest that I am," she countered.

Picard rolled his eyes, wondering precisely how many laws she had bent in removing these children from their homes – and how many she had broken outright. "Then you're going to have to meet with the Sickbay physicians in order to authorize treatment. The children aren't Federation citizens, and if the Cardassia government decided to protest out actions..."

"They don't even acknowledge the Chiemma," she new replied. "They won't argue."

"Maybe not today – but we're still in negotiations with them over the treaty; if they wanted to use this, they could," he countered. "No, we need to make sure their treatment is by the book – approved and authorized by their legal guardian and that means you will have to face the doctors in Sickbay. We might be able to hide you away from the rest of the ship, but not them."

She smiled, somewhat sadly. "Did I make that little of an impression on you, Jean-Luc, that you've forgotten what I can do? You don't have to hide me; I can hide myself just fine."

He gave her a puzzled look – then couldn't quite remember why he was puzzled. Something to do with... someone, he thought, not entirely sure why he been so worried.

Something about the children.

"I can't run away," a voice reminded him – then memory flooded back into him. "I can't just abandon the children to Sickbay. Their lives have been filled with terror and abandonment; I won't add to that, even to save myself," she replied. "Fortunately, I don't have to."

He gave a slight gasp at the torrent of memories that welled back into his mind, then looked at her. "No – but you can't do that to a thousand people," he reminded her.

"You don't know that. I've gotten better at 'pushing' in the last four years," she countered.

"Not that much better," he argued.

She shrugged. "It's debatable – but I'll agree I couldn't do it and keep them convinced. Not after I'm gone."

"And that may just be what we have to do," he said bluntly.

She gave him a confused look – and he met her eyes, shame and grief darkening them.

"Dee," he said softly, "Czymszczak never dropped the charges of treason against you. Your presence here is a direct threat to every member of this crew."

She stared at him, then turned away. "The bastard couldn't even let me die in peace, could he?"

Picard shook his head. "He couldn't take the chance. If the truth about Cardassia ever came out, his reputation would be destroyed – unless he destroyed yours first."

He watched her for a moment, then lay his hand atop hers. "I'm sorry. Will and I have been taking this through the courts, trying to clear your name, but..."

"Don't," she interrupted.

He looked at her in surprise.

She turned to face him. "Thank you – but you'll only risk your own careers – or worse. Czymszczak's a real son-of-a-bitch; he'll have no problem pulling down anyone who stands in his way – even you and Will. No, drop it. Give it a little time, then give up in frustration. Make noises every now and then – but let it go," she said, then turned her hand over and squeezed his. "After all, Andile's dead – but I'm not; I can always create a new reputation for myself."

True as her words were, the idea of abandoning the effort to clear her name infuriated him. Andile had served long and honorably and had earned her reputation as both an officer and an engineer; for Czymszczak to ruin them both just to protect himself left him feeling incensed.

More than incensed: it dishonored her, he thought; it dishonored them all.

He felt the touch of her hand on his again, and turned to meet her eyes once more.

"Honor isn't out there, Jean-Luc; it's in here," she said, raising a hand to her chest. "No one, especially not Tad Czymszczak, can take it away from me. And," she added, glancing behind her, "they don't care. Who I was, what I was – it doesn't matter, as long as I'm here, now."

"The trick is going to be keeping you with them," Picard replied. "A Romulan citizen... You are still a Romulan citizen, aren't you?" he asked.

"Technically. Tiron didn't disown me – or at least he hadn't the last time I heard. It's been a while, though," she added.

He looked at her, watching the pain play across her face, aching to know what had put the two asunder, to try to heal that rift – then looked away, knowing that this was neither the time nor the place to ask.

"In a way, I hope he has severed the connection," Picard admitted. "A Romulan citizen with a shipload of Cardassian children in Federation space is not going to be a situation that's readily resolved," he sighed.

"One disaster at a time, my dear Jean-Luc; one disaster at a time," she soothed. "For now, let's just get them on board and treated – and then we'll deal with the next problem."

He gave her a withering look. "Just once, I would like the word 'disaster' not to be synonymous with your name," he replied.

She smiled. "Disaster does start with a 'D', you know."

"Yes, but must it start with 'Dee'?" he sighed, then turned his attention to the shuttle bay.

Ahead, he could see Utsvek's shuttle had been emptied and moved aside, while a second group of people stood in readiness, waiting for the arrival of the Feynman and her passengers. Scanning the people, he was relieved to realize that he recognized none of them as crew members from his tenure as the ship's captain – though that was no guarantee that none of them would recognize the woman beside him, he added. Andile had made a name for herself during her century-long stay in Starfleet, he knew – and despite Czymszczak's best efforts, hers was a face that was still well known.

"But not expected," she countered. "People see what they expect to see; what they expect to see a bunch of injured refugees – and that's what they're going to get."

As the shuttle came to its landing, she stood, hastily stripping off the EV suit, leaving her in ragged clothing that was completely unremarkable, making her appear as little more than the adult survivor of this disaster.

Or perhaps not even that. She faded from his awareness a little more as she stepped back, hovering near S'bey and the girls, her diminutive stature making her appear as nothing more than one of the children.

I had forgotten how small she was, Picard reminded himself – but then, I've always seen her as being as large as her reputation, not her physical being.

He smiled to himself, remembering the first time he had encountered the woman, back at the Academy in his days as a cadet – and dumbfounded he ahd been at finding how petite, how delicate she looked – a stark contrast to her reputation as a near-Amazon of personality and personal strength. None of his friends had prepared him for that revelation, he remembered – but then again, none of them had prepared him for how stunningly beautiful she was, either.

Sixty years before, her appearance had taken his breath away.

It still did.

Not that she was physically beautiful by any culture's standards, he knew; not any more. Her head being smashed in with an axe had ended any chance of her being considered attractive; that the doctors at Starfleet had been able to reconstruct something that was presentable was miracle enough; that it functioned, that she could speak and eat and see and breathe was more than they could possibly have hoped for.

And yet time had finally softened the sharp angles and planes of the face he had come to know four years before, the lattice work of tritanium that made up the frame of her reconstructed skull had filled with calcium matrix, then smoothed as her body refined the bones. In time, as her body continued its slow process of building and destroying bones, there would be those who would consider her appearance... plain. Perhaps even nice.

To those who knew her, though, she _was_ beautiful.

He touched the door release, then stepped back, allowing the walkway to move into place, then strode down the path, speaking as the first person approached him – one of Sickbay's med techs, he decided seeing the expression of compassion and professional detachment covering the woman's face – an expression he had seen so often on Beverly.

"We've nineteen survivors aboard," he announced.

"Does anyone require emergency transport?" she asked with brisk efficiency.

Picard shook his head. "No. Fifteen are children – some infants – and all fifteen are unconscious. The others can move on their own," he added.

The woman turned, barked an order, and the swift removal of the sleeping children was begun.

"Lt. Utsvek said two were pregnant," she started, turning her attention back to the admiral – then stopped as the two girls slowly made their way off the ship. "And he was right," she said.

Pushing past Picard, she hurried to the two. "Do you need chairs? Are you in pain? Do you need...?"

S'bey pushed himself in front of the two, glaring down the technician angrily – then calmly turned to face the girls. Repeating the questions, he nodded as they spoke, then turned to face to technician once again.

"Isamatakte, inno katta yi ont higaurat esametok ka. Ets se vo," he explained.

The tech stared at them blankly.

Andile, her head held low, fatigue and exhaustion exuding from her every pore, spoke up. "They are tired and hungry, but they can walk," she said in thickly accented Standard.

The tech nodded. "Okay. And you?"

"Tired. We're all tired," Andile added.

"Yes, of course," the woman said hastily.

"The com..." Picard began, then quickly amended his words, "the computer indicated high levels of radiation in the engineering bay where they were trapped," he said.

"We'll get everyone assessed as quickly as possible, Admiral," the woman assured him – then started to reach for Andile's hand, ready to escort the young survivor to Sickbay.

Picard reached out, stopping the technician. "I'll escort her, Lieutenant," he said quickly.

The woman raised a brow in question.

"She's as close to a leader as they have, and Captain Riker will want to interview her about tonight's events as soon as possible. I'm told he's waiting for us in Sickbay," he added.

The woman nodded her understanding. "Of course, Admiral. She'll need to get a full medical scan as soon as you're done with her..."

"Of course," Picard agreed.

The woman looked at him uncertainly, not entire sure that she trusted him to follow up on his agreement – but he was an admiral, she reminded herself. She moved away, a little reluctantly, taking a moment to look back on the man – then shook her head, dismissing her concern as she turned her attention to S'bey and the two girls.

Picard and Andile stood together for a moment, then he gestured toward the doors. "Will is waiting for us," he reminded her.

They walked in silence for a moment, then she looked up at the man beside her, smiling. "What was that about the 'computer' indicating high levels of radiation? What happened to your sensors?"

"A slip of the tongue; I almost called you Commander."

"Ah. Commander," she repeated, then sighed wistfully. "I haven't been called that in a long time."

"And we damned well better make sure you aren't called it again – at least not while you're here. That would open a can of worms we don't want."

"Does anyone?"

"Does anyone... what?"

"Does anyone want canned worms?"

He stopped, turned and smiled at her. "A old Earth phrase, signifying creating a situation that will be difficult, if not impossible, to resolve."

"I know what it means. I was on Earth a long time, you know. I know about worms and fishing and canned food – gods, the things you people thought up!" she added. "I was just... teasing you. It's been a long time since I've had the chance to pull your leg."

"Not long enough," he sighed.

"Oh, don't be that way. Admit it, Jean-Luc, you missed me," she said petulantly.

He looked at her, looked at her ragged clothes, matted filthy hair, her dirt and blood encrusted face – and smiled.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I've missed you."


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Will Riker strode into his Sickbay – then stopped at the door, admiring, as he always did, the way these people could take chaos and turn it into organization.

Admittedly it was no different than how Geordi handled hectic situations in Engineering – or how Worf handled the bridge crew when they were in facing a dozen issues on as many fronts – but somehow, watching people deal with living – and often dying - breathing humans, watching them quickly assess and prioritize the patients was different, he thought.

Perhaps it was because they were dealing with lives, he thought; if Geordi or Worf made a mistake, the error was usually reparable – but here, it could mean the difference between life and death. And yet, these people could assign no more emotional significance to these patients than they could to a defective warp engine; they had to make decisions, quickly, efficiently, without allowing themselves the luxury of caring. These people whose very concern moved them into this difficult field, he thought, also had to be the ones who couldn't permit those feelings to affect that aspect of their work.

Fortunately, today appeared to be a day when battlefield triage wasn't required; while Sickbay was filled with the bodies of dozens of children, each was being tended to by at least one nurse, doctor or technician, and an aura of quiet compassion filled the space.

He looked around the room, looking for Picard, but not finding the man. Instead, he spied the diminutive form of Alyssa Ogawa, his Chief Medical Officer, and made his way to her.

"Situation report?" he asked.

"Thirty seven survivors," she said. "We're examining the children – there are thirty three under the age of ten, eighteen under the age of 3, and half a dozen infants. They're being treated for radiation exposure, but we're seeing clear signs of malnutrition, broken bones, nutritional deficiencies..." Her voice trailed off for a moment, then she looked back at Riker. "I'm not entirely sure how they've survived this far. A few more months without care, and they would have died," she added.

"And we've no idea why they were out here?" he asked.

"No, sir," she said. "These children are unconscious – and the three over there," she gestured at the teens who were huddled together, "aren't talking."

Will studied the three for a moment, then looked at Alyssa again. "Obviously those are the girls who are pregnant," he said, noting S'bey's solicitous attitude toward the two.

Alyssa nodded. "Obviously – but that's all we know about them. The boy won't let us close to them. I thought that maybe he was the father – that's why he was being so protective – but when Jon – one of my nurses - asked him that same question – he tried to attack Jon. He would have made it if the other girl hadn't stopped him."

Will gave her a questioning look.

Alyssa shook her head. "He thought he was being insulted – or maybe that Jon was insulting them."

"He was – unintentionally," Will added. "The Cardassians hold pedophiles as the lowest of the low; for your nurse to suggest that the young man was the father inferred that he had violated them."

"But.. they're all teenagers, Captain," Alyssa argued, "and hormones are hormones, whether Cardassian or human."

"I know – but that boy doesn't see himself as a child," he countered. "Look at him; he's not huddled with them, he's protecting them," Will countered.

Alyssa stared at the three, then turned back to Riker, nodding. "You're right. I hadn't realized it – but you're right. It explains why he won't let us near them. Unfortunately, it also means I can't examine them – and if they're suffering from radiation and malnutrition, so are their babies," she protested. "I really need to examine them, Captain," she said.

"I'll see what I can do. Which one of the girls stopped him from attacking your nurse?" he asked; if she was bold enough to act to protect the boy, she might be willing to listen to reason and act to protect her baby as well, he thought.

Alyssa stared at him for a moment, then shook her head. "Oh, no; it wasn't those two who stopped the fight; it was the other one," she explained.

Will looked around the room, but saw no other Cardassian teens present. "Which other one?" he asked.

"There's a third girl – apparently the leader of this group. She's in my office, with the Admiral, waiting for you," Alyssa said.

Will nodded, then smiled at the CMO. "Thanks, Alyssa. Give me an update as soon as you can. If their parents were killed in that explosion, we may need to contact the Cardassian government in order to authorize treatment for these children."

"Captain," she protested, "that could take months! They can't wait..."

"Doctor, there are regulations..."

"And these children are suffering. I won't let that happen – not in my Sickbay," she said defiantly.

Will stared at her – then sighed. "Beverly trained you far too well, Doctor," he said. "I don't want them to suffer, either," he said, "and the Compassion Laws allow us to treat any life threatening conditions without fear of retribution providing that the treatments don't interfere with religious or moral custom. That's not a problem for Cardassians – but beyond that emergent care..."

Alyssa nodded, relieved. "Thank you, Captain. I'll let you know as soon as I'm done here."

She moved away leaving Will to ponder the situation.

What a mess, he thought grimly. Cardassians – unaccompanied Cardassian minors – sick, injured, abused, unaccompanied Cardassian minors, in Federation space, probably in violation of what few accords they had with the Cardassians – and they were on his ship.

The Admiralty was going to have a field day with this one, he thought – and the one admiral he could trust implicitly to make the right decisions was about to go on a month-long break.

Then again, given the pleasant and welcoming attitude of the Kvesterians, maybe he could be talked into reconsidering that idea, Will thought.

Chicken, he chastised himself a moment later; you wanted the big seat, and that means facing up to the big brass when there's a problem – and not hiding behind your friends.

But if I'm going to take this to the Admiralty I want to go armed with information. Turning, he strode toward Alyssa's private office, tapped the annunciator control, then stepped into the small room as the door slid open.

Alyssa's office wasn't that different from Beverly's, but the woman had added a few touches to the space, including a low couch that backed against one wall.

This was where Picard was seated, ensconced on the far side, facing the doorway, one leg crossed over the other, casually sipping from a cup of tea – and looking entirely too comfortable, Will thought.

As did the girl seated with her back to him, he decided. Refugees did not, as a rule, make themselves at home quite so readily – nor should they, he added. Not when he had to risk the lives of two people – including the life of his best friend – to save their sorry souls.

Damn it! They could have died out there!

Feeling his wrath swelling with every moment growing, he stepped toward Picard, then pivoted to face the refugee leader.

"Just what the hell were you doing out there?" he snapped furiously.

The girl, so petite that he couldn't see her face as she sat in the chair, set down her own teacup, settled back in the couch, then raised her face to the man.

"That is the difference between you two," she said quietly. "He," she said, gesturing palms up at Picard, "pilots a shuttle into the Bryona minefield to save my life – and in a dress uniform, yet – and you yell at me. No wonder he's the admiral," she sighed.

Will stared at the woman for a moment, confused, bewildered – then felt the shock of recognition settle in.

"Beej?"

"In the flesh," she said, then rose from the couch, extending a hand to the man – who promptly ignored it, pulling her into a massive bear hug instead. He held her for a long moment – then pushed her back, staring at her as if he couldn't quite believe that she was standing before him – then pulled her back into the hug.

"Damn!" he swore – then pushed her away once more, a look of petulance on his face. "And for the record: I'm wearing a dress uniform, too," he told her.

"So you are," she conceded. "I stand corrected."

Will stared at her a moment longer, then looked at Picard. "Did you...?"

"Know that she was out there?" he finished for the man. "No. No idea. Although in retrospect..."

"In retrospect, who else would detonate a warp core as a SOS?" Will concluded, then looked back at Andile, grinning widely. "Damn!" he repeated, then let his smile fade. "Which doesn't answer the question: what the hell were you doing out there?!"

She sighed, then shook her head. "Call it abysmal judgment; the captain of the ship I hired decided to run the field – against my pleas. He died, we didn't," she concluded.

"Which explains why you're here – but not why you were there! Damn it, Biji, a ship full of Cardassian children? In Federation space – and without authorization?" he asked.

"I didn't have much choice, Will. They're Chiemma; I couldn't leave them to die on Cardassia," she said.

Will's eyes widened. "Cardassia? Beej, you didn't..."

"They were dying, Will," she said.

"Yes, but if the Cardassians had caught you..."

"What?" she asked. "I'd be detained, maybe jailed, and thrown off the planet. I'm not wanted for any state charges there, Will. Remember? They _killed_ me. They used an axe on me until I was nothing more than a hunk of meat. I left that planet in a garbage scow, and they dumped my corpse on some world where, by sheer luck, someone found me. As far as the Cardassians know, I am dead!"

"Nonetheless, a Federation citizen on Cardassia, kidnapping their children...?"

"One, I'm not a Federation citizen. Technically, I'm a Romulan," she reminded him.

"Oh, this just gets better and better," Will sighed.

"And two, the Chiemma aren't Cardassian children. According to the Cardassian government, they don't exist."

"Tar Zumell..." Picard began.

"Tar Zumell is a wonderful woman," Andile interrupted, "but try as she might, she isn't going to be able to get the government to change – at least not in time to save these children."

"So you kidnapped them?"

"They came voluntarily," she argued.

"Six of them are infants, Biji! How voluntarily could they have agreed to this?!" he raged.

Andile fixed him with an icy glare. "They were going to die, Captain. I wasn't going to let that happen."

Will glared back at her, then shook his head in resignation. "Fine. And now what?"

She raised a brow. "What do you mean, 'now what'?"

"You have thirty-six Cardassian children that you need to transport to...?" He opened his hands, signaling for her to fill in the gap in his question.

"I can't tell you," she said.

"Then what the hell do you want us to do?" he asked.

"I don't fucking want you to _do_ anything!" she snapped back. "This is my problem – and I'll handle it! You don't have to do anything!"

She pulled away from Riker, smashed her hand into the door release, and stomped out of the office.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Furious – and furious at himself for being so irrationally angry at Andile – Will turned to Picard – who simply held up a hand, wordlessly asking for the starship captain's forbearance.

A moment later, then door reopened, and Andile stomped back in. Stopping just in front of the door, she crossed her arms and looked at the two, her expression a blend of rage – and humiliation.

"I don't have any place to go," she informed them.

Picard checked the smile that threatened to cross his face.

"We'll see to that, Beej," Riker dais quickly, "but first things first; you need to get your... passengers treated." He looked at Picard. "The Compassion Laws can allow us to treat them for any life-threatening conditions," he said.

The admiral nodded. "That will suffice for the radiation exposure but for anything further we're going to need some evidence that proves guardianship," he said turning to face Andile, a hopeful expression on his face.

"Not to worry, Admiral; I've got documents to prove I have custody," she assured him.

Will gave the woman a skeptical glance. "Real documents?"

"The best money can buy," she said. "Or at least the best the money I had could buy. I'm working on a tight budget here."

Will frowned. "I thought Ambassador Tiron was wealthy..."

"Patchni... Ambassador Tiron and I had a falling out," Andile said quietly. "He didn't approve of this. He thought it was foolish... We had a fight, I left... but I managed to get enough money to bribe the right people and to get them onto that ship..."

She stopped, looked away for a moment.

But not enough money to hire a decent pilot, she added, guilt stabbing deep into her heart, a sudden wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm her.

Seeing her complexion suddenly pale, Picard lay a hand on her arm. "Dee?"

Startled, she looked at him blankly.

"Are you all right?"

She stared for a moment, then shook her head, pushing back the nausea and forcing a wan smile to her face.

"Sorry – just... Umm... The documents... I've got them," she finally managed. "They're real – or at least real enough for the Cardassians to let me take them off planet. I know enough about Cardassian politics to know the people I bribed to get them won't risk their positions by confessing to accepting the money. They wanted the money – and they wanted the children gone – to say anything about it now would be politic suicide – or worse."

Will nodded, though he wasn't entirely happy with her answer. "All right; I'll let Alyssa know..."

"Alyssa? Ogawa?" Andile interrupted.

Will nodded. "She's my CMO," he replied.

"Damn it! Gods damn it!" she growled.

"Dee, she's an excellent physician," Picard protested.

"I'm not arguing that point," Andile countered. "She treated me, remember? But that's the problem: she treated me – and she helped Beverly perform my autopsy," she pointed out. "She thinks I'm dead."

"Damn it," Will echoed.

"Is there a way around that, Will?" Picard asked. "Can Dee liaison with one of the other doctors?"

"Not without creating more questions and problems," Will said. "Bypassing the ship's CMO isn't something you do lightly. And the next in line is Dr. Gregory Matthews – and he, too, will remember Beej."

"Shit," Andile grumbled. "He's here, too?"

"Next time, I'll submit a crew manifest for your approval before I rescue you," Will countered caustically.

"Fuck you," she snarled back.

"Dee," Picard interrupted, then looked at Riker. "Will," he added quietly. "It's been a long night – and we're all a little on edge. I'll talk with Dr. Ogawa," he continued. "I think she'll understand, after I explain it," he said – then looked at Will. "It was my decision, Will, to keep the truth from Dr. Ogawa; I'll take the responsibility – and the blame."

Will shook his head. "I'll explain," he insisted – then drew a deep breath, tapped his badge and said, "Riker to Ogawa."

"Ogawa here."

"May I see you in your office, Doctor?" he asked.

"On my way," she replied.

Will felt himself tensing as he silently prepared an explanation as to why they had deceived the doctor for so many years about the fate of her friend. Whatever he said, he thought, it's going to boil down to a matter of: we didn't trust you. At least, he amended, not enough.

That wasn't entirely fair, he added; it wasn't entirely a matter of trust, but of safety. What Alyssa didn't know, she couldn't reveal, either by intent or accident.

Still, this was not going to bind the ties that held his senior staff together, he thought.

Steeling himself, he turned to the door.

The panel slid back a moment later, revealing Alyssa Ogawa. Proffering a padd to Will, she said, "My initial report on the status of the children, sir," then looked past him, smiled, and added, "Good to see you again, Beej."

Sliding past the three, she pulled out her chair, settled in behind her desk folded her hands under her chin – and smiled at the dumbfounded faces that looked back at her.

"How did you...?" Will began, astounded.

"I'm your CMO, Captain," she replied. "You didn't give me this position because I'm stupid. I scanned her when she walked in the door – I scan every potential patient – and when I see a scan indicating a patient with five kilos of tritanium lattice in her head and chest, an artificial heart and circulating inactive Borg nanites walking into my Sickbay, there aren't many conclusions I can make – beyond the obvious," she explained.

"But... I died," Andile protested.

"I know; I was at your funeral. But I was also with Beverly in the weeks and months that followed. I've been with Beverly for fifteen years, Captain," she said raising her face to look at Riker. "I've seen her in love, outraged, delighted, exhausted – and I've seen her grieve. I've see her grieve for patients, for family, for friends – I've seen it all – but this time, she wasn't grieving. Oh, she made some feeble attempts at faking her feelings – but deep down inside, she wasn't going through that loss.

"It didn't take me long to realize why she wasn't suffering," she continued. "You weren't dead," she concluded, looking at Andile.

Will cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Doctor Ogawa, I would like to apologize..."

"The apology is mine, Doctor," Picard interrupted. "It was my decision as to who would and would not know..."

"Admiral, Captain," she interrupted, "You don't need to apologize. I understand. This is Starfleet – and sometimes there are things that aren't for everyone to know. And what I didn't know, I couldn't tell," she added quietly.

Will nodded, reminding himself not to underestimate the physician in the future – and to trust in her ability to keep her mouth shut.

"So how are my children?" Andile said.

"Why don't you sit down?" Alyssa replied. "You, too, Captain."

Andile opened her mouth to protest, about to argue that she could take whatever bad news Alyssa was about to give her on her own two feet – then stopped.

You can't fight everyone on every issue, she reminded herself; you can't afford it – and the children can't afford losing you.

She sat down, watched as Will pulled a chair close to Alyssa's desk, then looked at the physician.

Alyssa sighed as if trying to determine where to start, then shook her head. "They're all in bad shape, Beej. Radiation exposure, as you suspected – but the hypothermia had slowed all metabolic functions, so the exposure wasn't fatal. Nonetheless, we're already finding some chromosomal damage and involvement in the bone marrow; in the very near future you'll be seeing the Cardassian equivalent of lymphomas, leukemias and other haemetological cancers in the children; long term, solid tissue tumors."

Andile blanched, but forced herself to remain calm. "And...?"

"They're also suffering from severe malnutrition – though their systems are beginning to show some signs of recovery," Alyssa admitted.

"We stole all the food we could find from the captain's stores," Andile replied. "I didn't think he would need it anymore," she added.

"It was a start – but their reserves are completely depleted. They're going to need a long, steady program of nutrition, treatment for old injuries that haven't healed..."

"I'll do whatever I can," Andile interrupted.

"You can't do this, Beej; they need professional medical care – and you're not a doctor. But we can treat them while they're here," she said. "We can treat the radiation exposure under the Compassion Laws – and I assume you have some sort of guardianship that will allow us to treat them for the other conditions?"

Andile nodded.

"Good. Then what I'd like to do is to sedate them, keep them sedated for at least a full day while we treat them for the radiation exposure, and start with naso-gastric feeding and intravenous supplementation. We should be able to treat many of the older injuries as well – and when they wake up tomorrow, they're going to feel better. After that, we'll look at continuing high calorie, high nutrition meals to try to build up those reserves along with other, minimally invasive treatments. We should be able to reverse the chromosomal damage and the effects on the bone marrow so that there aren't any acute or chronic problems."

"And Mshara and Usmet?"

Alyssa gave her a confused look. "The two pregnant girls? I don't know. The boy won't let us near them," she said.

Andile rolled her eyes in frustration, rose to her feet, started for the door. "S'bey," she sighed. "Damn him. He means well, but..." She rose – then hesitated, looking at Alyssa. "Can you get him in here? I don't want to advertise my presence any more than is necessary," she said.

"I'll get him," Picard said, rising to his feet. "He may not trust us, but I think he'll believe me if I tell him you want to see him," he added, glancing at Andile.

He returned several minutes later, S'bey immediately behind him – and Mshara and Usmet following.

"They didn't want to be separated from him," he explained.

Andile frowned. "Damn it," she muttered, then looked at Alyssa. "I don't suppose you can check them while he's there?"

"I can do a preliminary scan, Beej," Alyssa said, "but if there as close to a due date as they appear, I'd like to do a more comprehensive examination." She looked at the three, seeing them for the youngsters that they were. "I don't know that they'll want him there for that," she added honestly.

"And I don't think he's going to want to be there, either – but I don't want them to be alone either," Andile sighed. "Okay, maybe we can come up with something that will obscure my face or..."

"Or perhaps we can find a better solution," Will said with a grin. Touching his commbadge, he called out, "Riker to Troi," then turned his back, speaking quietly to his wife.

Still grinning a moment later, he turned, faced Andile and said, "She'll be here in a few minutes."

"You didn't tell here I'm here, did you?" Andile replied.

"No. As you said, that's not something we're going to advertise – and certainly not over the comm system," he added.

Troubled, Andile looked to Picard. "Are you still having problems with someone tapping into the comm system?" she asked. "I thought that was resolved way back when I was on the ship," she said.

"Officially, it was," Will interjected, "but..."

Picard continued for him. "We were unable to determine conclusively who was behind the sabotage – or the attempts on your life. And since then I've seen the odd report come through the Admiralty that suggests that information is still being covertly recorded – not just on the Enterprise, but on other vessels as well," he added.

"Section 31?" she asked.

Picard shook his head. "No. Section 31 isn't sloppy; they are noted for their ability to cover their tracks. No, whoever is doing this is an amateur; they make mistakes – like letting those reports wind up on the wrong desks - but not enough mistakes that I can find out who's responsible."

She thought for a moment. "Maybe they aren't mistakes, Admiral; maybe someone wants you to know that something's happening."

"I've considered that idea as well," he admitted.

"In any case, what doesn't go over the comm system won't be made available to whoever is behind this," Will said.

"And you want to have the fun of surprising Deanna," Andile added.

Will smiled mischievously. "That's part of it," he admitted. "But I think she may be able to provide a solution for the situation."

Andile nodded, understanding. "When the girls realize I trust her, they might start to do so as well – which means she can be with them."

Alyssa smiled. "And you can be with the other children and out of the way of prying eyes. Captain," she continued, turning to Riker, "we should find Beej some quarters; she needs to rest..."

Andile shook her head. "I can't be away from the children, Alyssa – at least not for very long. Either S'bey or I have been with them almost every minute since we found them; I can't let them think I've deserted them. No, we'll need to find quarters where we can all stay together."

"The Enterprise doesn't have guest quarters that large," Will reminded her. "But we could make over one of the holodecks to act as a dormitory."

"That would be perfect," Andile replied. "We can change it as needed to provide play areas..." she started – then managed a weak laugh. "Except of course, they don't know how to play," she added plaintively, her voice catching.

At the sound, S'bey rose to his feet, reaching for the woman, one hands reaching consolingly to her shoulder.

For a moment – for a very awkward, uncomfortable moment – she accepted the embrace – then pulled herself straight. "I'm fine," she told him.

"Kemes asote," he countered, his meaning unmistakable.

"He's right, Beej," Alyssa said. "You've been through as much as the children have; I'd like to check you as well." She began to rise from the desk, reaching for a scanner, even as Andile backed away.

"Really, I'm fine," she protested.

"Don't worry, Beej; I can do it right here; no one out there will see you..."

"Yes, but..." she protested again.

Alyssa stepped out from behind the desk – and in that instant, unreasoning terror filled the woman.

Panicking, she pivoted, turning to the door – and found it opening, Deanna standing in the opening.

A very surprised Deanna.

A very surprised and very pregnant Deanna.

The Betazoid stared at her – while Andile gaped at the woman's burgeoning belly.

After a stunned moment, she turned, looked at Will – who grinned proudly – then turned back to gawk at Deanna's abdomen once again.

"You're pregnant," she said at last.

"You're here," Deanna countered.

"They're both good with the obvious," Will remarked to Picard.

"Indeed," Picard agreed.

The two women turned to glare at the two human men – then reached forward and hugged – or rather, they embraced each other as closely as Deanna's belly would permit. After a moment, they pulled apart, Andile smiling at the obstacle between them.

"Did he do that?" she asked, pointing at Will, whose grin had grown – if such a thing was possible.

"Umm-hmm," Deanna agreed.

"Nice to know he finally figured out what it was for," she continued.

"It took a while," Deanna agreed.

"Hey!" Will began, only to feel Picard's hand on his arm.

"Don't," Picard advised.

"But..."

"No. Don't even try, Will; you'll only make it worse," the older man said firmly.

Will looked at the two women, weighing Picard's words against his own judgment – and sighed. "Go ahead," he told them. "Do your worst. I can put up with anything - for my Imzadi."

" 'For my Imzadi'," Andile echoed with a groan. "That's pretty pathetic."

"Yes, but what he lacks in originality, he makes up for it in looks," Deanna replied – then grinned, looked back at Andile – and the two hugged once more.

Stepping back, Andile smiled at her old friend. "Congratulations," she said at last.

"Thank you."

"Happy?"

Deanna nodded. "Although I miss working," she added.

"What? You're not ship's Counselor anymore?" she replied, stunned.

"A temporary hiatus," Deanna answered. "Junior's at that point of his development where the area of the brain responsible for empathy is developing – and I can't sense anyone right now," she added.

Andile frowned, then turned her head toward Deanna's waistline. "Hey, Junior; are you giving your mother a hard time?"

"It's all right, Beej," Deanna said. "Having him on the way is worth the loss," she said.

"And fortunately," Alyssa interrupted, "the type of empathy we need at the moment is something that you are quite qualified to provide, Counselor."

Deanna gave her an inquisitive look, then followed her gaze to the three teenagers seated on the couch.

"S'bey, get up; give the Counselor your place," Andile chided the young man.

He looked at her uncertainly, then reluctantly rose to his feet.

Deanna moved to the couch, taking the vacant place, then settled in uncomfortably beside them. For a moment, she shifted her weight, seeking out a more comfortable position, then allowed herself a sigh of relief – and gave the two girls an understanding glance.

"And I have four months to go," she informed them.

The two stared at her, confused – then looked at Andile.

"Ek tamato, jughna eso ki," she explained.

The two gaped, then looked Deanna, clearly astounded at the realization of just how large the woman was going to be.

After a moment, one of them cautiously extended a hand as if to touch Deanna's abdomen – then started to pull it back.

"Go ahead," Deanna said softly, then took the outstretched hand and lay it on her belly.

The girl touched it cautiously, then slowly allowed herself to touch it more firmly – and was rewarded with the faint touch of the unborn baby's kick.

She pulled her hand back instantly – then realized what she had felt. Emboldened, she sat back, reached for Deanna's hand and placed it on her own belly.

"Oh!" Deanna sighed as the girl's fetus moved, "he's going to be strong! When is your baby due?"

"Soon. Maybe a month," Andile said. "We're not sure when they got pregnant – they were both being held as sex slaves somewhere on Cardassia. The man – the men – threw them out when they realized they were pregnant," she added.

Deanna gasped, horrified – then turned to the girls. "It's all right," she assured them. "You're safe here. No one's going to hurt you like that again," she promised – then looked at Andile. "Are you sure about the time? They seem so small."

"I'm guessing – but I think I'm close," she replied. "Cardassian women don't show as much as humans. They were pregnant when I found them – and they've been with me for four months."

"We'll be able to get a more accurate date when we examine them," Alyssa said. "Unfortunately we haven't been able to do that yet," she added.

"And you want me along to assure them that it's all right?" Deanna asked, understanding.

"What I'd like is to do a scan on you so they could see that they aren't in danger," Alyssa said. "I need them to trust us – but a little handholding from another mother-to-be might be helpful," she added.

"I'd do it, but..." Andile started.

"We can't Beej being seen; too many people knew her... and knew she died," Will explained.

"Please," Andile added beseechingly.

Deanna nodded. "Of course – if the girls..."

"Usmet," Andile said, gesturing to the taller girl, "and Mshara."

Deanna extended a hand to each girl, smiling softly, introducing herself – then reached her hand to S'bey.

"And S'bey," Andile continued.

The young man hesitated for a moment.

Mshara murmured something, forcing a laugh from Usmet. S'bey darkened, then hastily accepted Deanna's hand.

Deanna tightened her grasp of the boy's hand for a moment, then looked back at Andile. "As I said, I'll do what you need – if the girls are agreeable to the idea."

Andile moed close to the three, crouching low, her voice dropping. "Herrat, reguilat esto meki lopatmeye. Es su, es su mie fruat huter," she added softly, then turned to look at the humans, her expression one of friendship, admiration... love.

She's pushing, Picard thought as a delicious sense of well-being and trust welled up in him, then looked at the others, watching their expressions grow soft, wondering if they realized the source of the sensation.

No, he reminded himself; while Deanna and Beverly both knew Andile was a telepath, the true depth of her abilities was something that neither he nor Beverly had revealed, even to other members of the crew.

It wasn't that they didn't trust the others, he thought, but just as with so many other aspects of the long-lived woman's existence, there were some things that were just better not being well-known – for all their sakes – and always wondering whether their emotions were entirely their own, or being influenced by a fellow crewperson, was one of them.

And it would be a legitimate concern, he knew; Andile may not have used her telepathic abilities often – but he knew she had nver hesitated to do so when she had thought it necessary, using her own judgment to supersede the wills of those around her.

Even here, he thought, knowing it wasn't right for her to 'push' these children into trusting the Starfleet officers – even for the sake of their own health and that of their unborn children.

_And under other circumstances, if time was not of the essence, I wouldn't. But their lives, and the lives of their babies, are on the line,_ she protested to him.

_Nonetheless, it should still be their choice,_ he reminded her.

_They're children!_

_They are about to become mothers, Dee; they need you to help teach them how to make good decisions, not to impose your will on them,_ he pointed out.

_We don't have the time! Damn it, I didn't haul them off that planet just to have their babies die here!_ she snapped back.

She glanced at him, rage emanating from her eyes – but even as she turned back to the children, he felt the gentle urge fade.

"It's best for you and your babies," she said at last, "but it has to be your decision."

The two girls looked to each other, then spoke quietly.

Andile looked at Alyssa. "They've agreed – but they're scared."

Alyssa nodded, understanding. "I'm sure they are. Assure them that nothing is going to happen to them or their babies; after I've completed the exams, we can discuss what's going to happen next. In the meantime, we can get you set up with quarters for tonight..."

"I'll wait until we can get the children ready for the holodeck," Andile replied.

"That won't be until tomorrow," Alyssa reminded her.

"I can sleep in here..." Andile began – then stopped as she saw the disapproval in Alyssa's face. "If you don't mind," she added, surprised at the woman's reluctance.

Alyssa sighed, then shook her head and let out a long breath. "Beej, I could give you a long song and dance about your need for rest and food, but..."

""But what?" Andile pressed.

Alyssa sighed again. "I don't know how to say this, so I just will: Beej, you need a bath."

For a moment, the petite woman stared at her – then looked down at her filthy, ragged clothes, raised a hand to her matted hair, then frowned petulantly. "Hey, you try living on an Orion ship for a week..."

Alyssa raised her hand. "I understand – but you're here now. All of your children are going to be bathed and fed and dressed in clean clothes; I suggest you do the same," she said.

"Will," Deanna said, looking at her husband, "we can arrange guest quarters..."

"I really don't want to be away from the children any longer than is absolutely necessary," Andile reminded her.

"If I may?" Picard interjected.

"Of course, Admiral," Will said.

He turned to his old friend. "Use my quarters: you can wash, change clothes and we can discuss what we can do to help get you where you were going," he suggested, glancing at Will for support.

"Alyssa can contact you if there are any problems," Will concurred.

Andile looked at the physician, the captain, the admiral and the counselor, protestation on her face – then sighed. "All right; I know when I've been beat. But you'll call me..." she told the doctor warningly.

Alyssa smiled. "I'll call you," she agreed. "Go take a bath – please!"

Andile grumbled – then sighed. "All right - but under protest."

"I'll make a note in my log," Will said.

"Smart ass," she replied – then turned to S'bey, and the two girls, explaining the plan.

To her surprise, the two girls didn't seem crushed by her upcoming absence; if anything, both seemed a little excited by the idea.

"They see you as their mother, Beej," Deanna explained. "And this is the first time you're leaving them on their own."

"They've been on their own for years!" she argued.

"Yes," the counselor replied, "but this time – for the first time, perhaps - they feel they are in a safe place, and can be left on their own – at least to a degree – safely." She smiled. "It says a lot for how far you've brought these children in a few months, that they can feel that way after what they've been through. And it says even more that you're trusting them to be safe without you," she added.

"You're just saying that because you know I won't do things for myself," Andile argued.

Deanna smiled. "Let's just say that taking a bath _would_ be for everyone's sake," she said.

"Of, come on, it's not that bad..." she began – then stopped as the humans – all of them – slowly nodded.

"Yes, it is," Picard finally said.

"Fine," she said, pouting. "S'bey, I'll be back in a few minutes. Admiral, lead on – my bath awaits!" she ordered him.

Picard smiled, then stepped toward the door, glancing out cautiously as the door opened, then, seeing that the path to the main doors was clear, gestured for the woman to follow him.

To his surprise, Will followed as well, falling in step as they moved down the corridor, all three walking in silence to the lift.

The silence continued as the three rode the lift, then exited when it opened on the deck that housed Picard's former – and present - quarters. As Andile stepped out, Will touched Picard's arm, holding him back a step, allowing Andile to take the lead.

Surprised, Picard looked at his former first officer, a question in his eyes.

"I thought they should have a moment together before we got there," Will explained.

The confusion in Picard's face didn't clear.

"Beej and Data," Will explained. "He's still in there, talking with B-4," he reminded the man. "I thought that was why you suggested your quarters..." he said.

"Data," Picard gasped, horrified. "Will... I haven't told her!"

Will stared at the man. "You didn't tell her that Data's alive?" he said in astonishment.

"I intended to – but I wanted to wait for an appropriate moment..."

The two looked at each other in horror – then turned and sprinted after the woman, who had just reached the door.

Tabbing the annuciator control, she waited for the door to open – and froze.

An android stood in the doorway facing her.

"Andile," he said flatly. "I recognize your image."

She gaped for a moment, then managed a weak, "Data?"

The being stared back for a moment, then gave a single shake of his head. "I am not Data. I am B-4..." he started.

Andile stared a moment longer – then let out a rush of breath in relief. "B-4. Of course. Jean-Luc told me about you. It's nice to meet you," she started, stepping into the room, extending her hand to him.

B-4 raised his hand as well – but not to take hers. Instead he extended a finger and jabbed it against his chest. "I am B-4," he repeated, then moved the finger and pointed it at something behind her, added, "He is Data."

For a moment, the words didn't register – then she turned and came face to face with the image of her former lover.

"Ginger?" he said, his voice soft with disbelief.

"Data?" she whispered, stunned.

"Ginger," the android repeated, stepping toward the woman.

"Data," she repeated - and then the room went black.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Noises, faint, unclear, touched at the edge of her senses.

"Ginger?"

"Damn it..."

"Got her..."

"On the couch..."

Something touched her, lifted her; she didn't feel herself being carried, but air moved against her skin, and a scent, not quite human, not quite mechanical – but familiar, oh so familiar – swirled over her, reached to stir old memories.

Memories she had given up long ago; memories that she ached for for so long; memories that shouldn't be returning.

A cry of despair and grief fell from her lips, unnoticed and unnoted.

"Riker to Ogawa..."

"Elevate her legs..."

Something startlingly cold and wet was pressed against her forehead; she gasped at its icy touch, reflexively reaching up to remove it, but a hand, gentle but firm, stopped her.

She knew that touch, that strength, that smell... Oh, gods! Oh gods! It had been so long, she thought wearily, so long...

She opened her eyes, looking into that face she had known so long ago, a face she had dreamt of every night for so many years, that face that haunted her memories, her thoughts, her very dreams... a face she thought she would never see again...

And here he was.

Oh gods, she thought, smiling beatifically, reaching up to caress the face that looked down at her, you're here. Oh, by the gods, they've brought you back to me.

Because only they could bring you back, something in her thoughts reminded her.

Because you're dead.

With a terrified shriek, she pulled her hand back, scrambling back from the apparition before her, manically trying to distance herself from this... this...

"Ginger?" Data said worriedly, reaching for her.

She cried out again, backing over the arm of the couch, knocking over the end table, sending its vase of flowers to the ground in a shatter of porcelain and water.

"Ginger, do not be alarmed..."

"You're dead!" she screamed, "You're dead!"

"I was..."

"You're dead!" she screamed at him, then spun on her heels – but hands, not as strong or as unyielding as though she remembered, grabbed her.

"Dee..." Picard said placatingly.

"He's dead! He's dead!" she cried out desperately. "You said he was dead!" she wailed desperately.

"He was," he started.

"Then who... what... is that?" she asked, pulling away from his supporting grasp, pointing at the android.

"Ginger..." Data began.

"Don't call me that!" she snapped. "You can't call me that! That was his name for me – not yours!"

Data gave her a confused look. "But I am him," he protested.

She stared at him – then shook her head furiously. "No! No! He's dead!"

"But..."

Picard stepped between the two, raising his hands to silence the debate. "Dee, Data... Everyone, please, let's sit down and I'll explain."

The former lovers stared at each other for a moment, Andile shaking with terror and rage, Data stock-still, too stunned to move at all - then Picard took Andile's arm, maneuvering her to the couch, while Will tugged gently at Data, guiding him to a chair.

B-4, impassive, impervious to the surging emotions of the others, remained where he was.

"Dee," Picard began gently.

"You said he was dead," she repeated accusingly.

"He was," Picard agreed.

"Then who is that?" she asked.

"Ginger..."

"Don't call me that!" she snapped back. "_You_ can't call me that!"

Data stared at her, stricken once again, then forced himself to quiet his emotions. "Andile," he started again, "I am Data."

"No, you're not. Data is dead," she argued.

"Yes, I was. He was," the android quickly amended. "I... he died as a result of the conflict with the Remans," he said. "However, since that time, Geordi has worked to recreate my physical body and rebuild a positronic net that would be able to store the memories that I... that _he_ placed within B-4," Data explained. "Geordi's work came to fruition several days ago, when I was brought back on line."

Andile shook her head, "No. Geordi built an android that looks like my Data – but that doesn't make you him," she said.

"But... I contain all the memories, the emotions, the experiences that my predecessor possessed," he protested.

She looked at him – then looked at B-4. "So does he," she said. "Is he Data, too?"

"I am B-4," B-4 interjected.

Despite the roiling emotions in the room, she looked at the being, then forced a gentle smile to her face. "Yes, you are," she said softly. "But you're not Data," she said, then looked at the image of her former lover, "and neither are you," she said firmly.

"Ginger... Andile," Data amended.

"You may look like Data, you may have his memories, you may even think you're Data – but that person died! His life ended!" she added harshly, then pushed herself to her feet. "I... I wish you well," she said, trying desperately to quell her surging emotions. "I wish you a good life – but your life, not his. His ended four years ago," she said.

And so did mine, she added wordlessly.

And then it went on.

"I've been told I need a bath – so if you will all excuse me, I'm going to attend to that," she said. "Admiral, Captain... gentlemen," she said, giving a slight bow of her head, then turned away, aiming for the distant bedroom.

The four watched in silence as she left the room, staring at the closed door for several seconds before turning to face one another again.

"Admiral..." Data began.

"Data, I'm sorry," Picard interrupted – then drew a deep breath, angry at himself for not having thought to prepare either of his friends for this encounter. "I... I didn't tell her about you being alive and on board."

"I was equally unaware of her presence on the ship, Captain," Data reminded the man.

"That's because, until a few hours ago, she wasn't," Will explained.

Data cocked his head in question.

Will sighed, then began to detail the events of the last few hours – at least as far as he knew them.

He had barely launched into the tale of their detection of the explosion when the annunciator chimed, and he rose.

The chime startled him – as it did Picard; the two looked at each other for a moment, then the admiral rose to his feet, moved to the door and opened it – and looked into the worried eyes of Alyssa Ogawa.

She entered the room, medical bag in hand, looking for her presumed patient – then upon seeing Data and B-4 in the room, gave a weary sigh. "You didn't tell her, did you?" she asked rhetorically.

"I..." Picard began.

"You know, there are such things as bad surprises, Admiral," she reminded him – then glanced past him to the two androids. "No insult intended, Mr. Data," she added.

"None is taken," he replied.

"Where is she?" she asked.

Picard pointed at the bedroom. "She's fine now," he started.

Alyssa gave him an incredulous look. "She's fine? I get a call that there's a medical emergency – and now you say she's fine?" she asked.

Picard conceded the point. "When she saw Data, she collapsed..."

Alyssa nodded. "Considering what she's been through, I'm not surprised."

"What she has been through?" Data interrupted worriedly, rising to his feet, moving to join the two at the door, B-4 on his heels. "Admiral, Captain, what has transpired?"

Picard raised a hand to still the android. "... but she recovered," he continued to Alyssa.

"And where is she now?" the physician pressed.

Will, having joined the others, pointed to the bedroom. "She said she was going to take a bath..." he started.

"All right," she sighed. "You're probably right – that what happened was nothing more than just the shock of seeing Data once again," she said , "but radiation can do strange things," she said.

"Radiation?" Data echoed worriedly.

"I'll explain," Picard said, then looked at the open doorway. "But let's not discuss it here, where others can overhear," he added, gesturing to the others.

Three of the four found seats once again, while B-4 stood beside his sibling, and Picard resumed his explanation.

Not that either of the androids seemed to care, he thought, though both assumed postures of rapt attention; B-4 didn't care, Picard knew, because caring was an emotion – and emotions were beyond his abilities – and Data...

No, it wasn't that Data didn't care, he decided; he did care, and cared deeply. The android wanted to know everything that had led up to the disaster of the last few minutes – but his emotions were wrapped up in his thoughts about the woman in the adjacent room.

And indeed, when the door opened some time later, Data instantly rose to his feet to face the physician who emerged, oblivious to the fact that Picard was still detailing the events of the last few hours.

"Doctor?" Data said as Alyssa emerged. "How is she?"

Alyssa smiled politely at the android, but carefully moved around him, aiming for Riker instead.

And in that brief gesture, Picard knew that what had happened in that room had been something terrible, something tragic.

There had been a time when Alyssa – and Beverly before her – would have reported Andile's condition first to her lover, then to her captain; now... Now Alyssa moved only toward the ship's senior officer.

"How is she, Doctor?" Will said, echoing Data's words.

"Reluctant to be examined – as you would expect," Alyssa said. "While I suspect her collapse was triggered by the shock of seeing Data, her blood sugar levels were precipitously low. I don't think she's eaten in quite some time..."

Picard sighed. "The ship's captain had purchased food for only a few passengers; she gave the children her shares," he said.

"Sounds like Beej," Alyssa agreed. "Unfortunately – or fortunately – her body hadn't made the change to burning muscle for energy, so while the low blood sugar was a problem, it also suggests she hadn't resumed her old habits.

"But, as I expected, she is suffering from radiation poisoning. I'm not sure if it was from the exposure to open space or from reconfiguring the warp core – but the exposure was significant," she added.

"Is it treatable?" Will asked, instantly concerned..

"In anyone else, no; anyone else wouldn't have survived this long. In Beej?" she asked with a smile. "Well, the fact that she's not puking up her guts, if I may quote her, indicates that it's not immediately life-threatening – but the long term ramifications are unknown. I've initiated treatment, which I'll continue in conjunction with the children's; since they'll be in a confined area – the holodeck – I can use an aerosol treatment that can be effective without being threatening or intrusive.

"As for the malnutrition, I can give her supplementation to rebuild her stores, but might I suggest feeding her something more than a cup of tea?" she asked Picard.

He reddened slightly at the realization of that that was all he had offered his friend. "Yes, of course..."

"Good – and then remind her that the children are going to follow her lead when they are on the holodeck; if she eats, they'll eat; if she sleeps, they'll sleep.

"Taking care of herself isn't Beej's strong suit," Will reminded the doctor.

"Tell me about it," she sighed back, "and all the more reason to give her the opportunity to do so now. Captain, if you could make arrangements for the holodeck to be set up for her and the children, I think the Admiral could convince her to rest there while the children are in Sickbay."

"She's welcome to sleep here," Picard said.

Alyssa looked at the two androids, then sighed softly and shook her head. "I don't think that would be a good idea," she replied. "I think she would rest better in an environment that has fewer memories."

"I'll see to the arrangements," Will said.

"In the interim, may I speak with her?" Data asked.

Alyssa looked at Picard, frowning. "No - at least not until she's had a chance to come to terms with what's happened today, Data. In fact, I'd really like her to talk with Deanna about it - and maybe you should as well," she suggested.

"I do not believe that is necessary, Doctor," he countered. "I am cognizant of my emotional status."

"Your status," Alyssa countered, "but not hers – or anyone else's. Data, it's been four years! We had come to terms with your death – now we have to come to terms with your being alive again – but you're going to have to come to terms with the fact that we've changed in that time. This is not the world you left," she said. "Things – people – have changed."

Or not, Picard thought to himself, thinking about the emotionally unstable woman who had joined his crew four years before. She had just begun to recover from those emotional wounds when she had been forced from the ship, only to suffer the loss of her lover a few months later.

He sighed to himself, grieving for his friend – for both of his friends – then met Data's worried gaze. "Let her rest, Data; ler get something to eat, let her get the children safely arranged on the holodeck – and I'll talk with her; ask her if she'll meet with you. I'm not promising anything," he added hastily, "but I'll talk to her."

"Thank you," Data replied.

"And Data?"

The android cocked his head to one side. "Sir?"

"Please accept my apologies," he said. "Had I informed Andile as to your presence on the Enterprise, this might not have happened," he admitted.

"Your apology is not necessary, Admiral; I understand," Data after a moment.

Indeed? Picard thought. Then maybe you can explain it to me, because I most certainly do not understand what I did – or rather, what I did not do.

"As you indicated that our presence is detrimental to Andile's well-being," Data continued, "B-4 and I should absent ourselves from the Admiral's quarters. Nonetheless, I would like to assist in Andile's recovery - if that would be permissible," he added, looking at Will.

"Data..." Alyssa started worriedly.

"I was not about to interfere with Andile's emotional recovery, Doctor," Data interrupted. "What I was about to suggest is that B-4 and I participate in the design and preparation of the holodeck," he clarified.

The doctor fell into embarrassed silence as Picard looked at Will, who considered the idea.

"I don't see why not," Will said after a moment. "In fact, it might be a good idea. Holodeck technology hasn't changed much since Data's time – and it would help to limit who knows she's on board," he added.

"You might want to inform Worf and Geordi regarding the identity of our guest," Picard added.

"I intended to," Will concurred. "We may need their assistance – and not just with the holodeck," he added. "It's not everyday that we rescue a ship filled with Cardassian children – and their Romulan guardian. I'm still trying to think what to put in my report to Starfleet. I'm not even sure what to call _her_. God knows I can't call her any of the names we know..."

"The children know her as 'Komiada'," Picard said. "You may wish to refer to her by that name," he advised.

"Let me know what you decide, Captain, so my records will be consistent with yours," Alyssa said. "But if there's nothing else you need from me...?"

Will shook his head.

"Then I'll be getting back to my other patients," she said – but rather than turning to leave, she looked to the Starfleet admiral. "Get her to eat and sleep, Admiral – and let her know that if she doesn't, I have no compunctions about sedating her and putting her on total parenteral nutrition; I've done it before and I'll do it again – if I have to," she said warningly.

"Threatening your patients, Doctor?" Will teased the physician.

Alyssa smiled. "Whatever it takes, Captain. And speaking of threats, need I remind you that you're a month overdue for your annual physical?" she reminded him.

Picard managed a smile at the familiar words. "You sound like Dr. Crusher," he said.

"I learned from the best," Alyssa replied.

Despite himself, Picard smiled, then escorted the doctor to the door, only to find the others following her.

"We should be going as well," Will said. "We'll notify you as soon as the holodeck is ready," he added.

Picard nodded.

"Sir," Data added, "I understand that you believe Ginger is not ready to speak with me, but may I ask that you relay a message to her?"

"Data..." Picard began hesitantly.

"When you feel she is ready, please tell her that I love her?" he pressed.

Picard cringed. "Data..." he started again – then stopped. Andile was not ready to hear that message – and perhaps she never would be – nor was relaying such emotional messages something he would have ever done willingly. But these were her friends; he owed this – and so much more – to them both. "I make no promises, Data – but I'll do what I can," he said after a long moment.

"Thank you," Data said, then followed Will and Alyssa from the room.

To his surprise, however, B-4 held back, seemingly confused, then looked at Picard.

"Is there a problem, B-4?" Picard asked his ward.

The android considered that question for a moment, then nodded. "I..." he started, then stopped, and said, "Yes."

"What kind of problem?"

B-4 thought a long moment more, then gave a single shake of his head. "I do not know. I will... think... about it," he said, then moved to join his brother in the hallway.

The door slid shut behind the four – and Picard gave out a sigh.

What the hell was I thinking?! he chided himself. I knew Data was in here – and I did nothing – nothing! – to prepare either one for that encounter!

Frustrated, furious with himself for what he had done to both of his friends, he fell into the couch, lowering his head into his hands, shaking his head angrily.

After a moment, he sighed, then straightened himself – and noticed the broken vase.

The ship had janitorial services to handle this type of thing, he knew, but it seemed unnecessary to call them out for something so trivial – and it would give me something to do, he added.

Straightening the table, he bent to pick up the shards of broken vase, disposing of them in the replicator, then found a towel and sopped up the worst of the spilled water.

Five minutes later found the room much as it had been an hour before, fresh flowers displayed on the low table – and Picard seated on the couch, a cup of tea in his hand once more, and a padd in his hand.

He touched the padd, reviewing the dig notes – but glanced up every few minutes, expecting the bedroom door to open, and a physically and emotionally exhausted Andile to reveal herself.

After a half-hour, however, there had been no sign of the woman, and no sound from the adjacent space.

Worried, he rose from the couch, stepped close to the door, listening carefully – but hearing nothing. Touching the control, he opened it, looked it – and found the bed deserted.

For a moment, panic filled him – but there was no place she could go, he knew. Except of course, the bathroom, he thought, a relieved smile crossing his face.

Moving into the room, he heard the reassuring sound of water running – all well and good, he decided – then realized that some of the amenities of a bath were missing – like towels and clean clothes.

Clothes weren't something he could help with, he decided; women's sizes were a mystery to him – and their sense of style and taste all the further removed. Not that Andile cared about such things, he knew from their time together, any more than she cared about being naked – but she did possess a tremendous sensitivity to the cold, he knew equally well.

I should have realized it was her when she made that remark about the cold, he reminded himself with a smile – then moved to the replicator, punching up a request for thick towels and a warm robe; nothing fancy, but enough to get her dry and keep her warm until she could decide on what she wanted.

Punching the codes into the machine, Picard watched as a thick pile of folded cloth appeared; picking it up, he tapped lightly on the door – but the sound of the running water was far louder than his tap.

Easing the door open, he slid the towels and robe onto the counter – then heard the sound.

It was barely audible, well hidden in the depths of the running water – but he heard it nonetheless: a soft, ever so soft, wail of grief and loss, a gasp, and then another faint keen of pain.

She was crying, he realized; she was crying.

He stared into the room, making out the shape huddled against the wall of the shower, watching the shuddering motions of her shoulders as she loosed another wave of grief and sorrow.

Sorrow he had caused her, he realized.

All I had to do was say something, let her know he was here, alive... but I didn't.

My fault.

This has all been my fault.

He stared at her again – then, ignoring the water streaming down, stepped into the shower, crouched down beside her, and pulled her into his arms.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

She said nothing, simply moving into his embrace, sobbing as he drew her close, burying her head against his chest.

For a long time, neither moved, the water pouring over them, washing away the tears – but not the pain.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

"But as grave as the present situation may be, it is the continuing work – your work, your ideas, your innovations, your experiments – your dedication to eradicating this disease! – that keeps hope alive for our patients. I wish you well in your efforts, and look forward to the findings presented this conference – and to the hope that this will be the last time we have to meet for this reason.

"On behalf of Dr. Jackson, I thank you for your kind attention."

Beverly stared out into the room, her eyes on locked on some distant point in the darkened auditorium, patiently waiting for a reaction to her reading of the paper – then smiled, turned to the one person seated in the hall and raised a brow in question.

"Well?"

Dr. Oswe Kormats gave an indifferent shrug. "Thorough, detailed, complete – but not up to your usual standards, Bev," he said bluntly. "It sounds like something Sherill would write."

"That's because she did write it," Beverly reminded her old friend. "It's her paper, after all."

"I know – but I thought you would spice it up a little," he replied, rising from his seat, making his way up the short staircase that led to the stage. "I imagine she thought you would do the same," he added as he reached Beverly's side. "She didn't ask you to do this just because you were the head of Starfleet Medical, you know; I'm sure she was hoping you'd add a little of your eloquent style and verve to her... litany of facts," he said after a moment's thought. "You aren't just the 'dancing doctor' to your friends, you know; we think of you as the "Shakespeare of Starfleet Medical" as well."

Beverly blazed red. "I wrote one play..."

"One play – but an excellent one," Oswe answered, patting her arm consolingly.

"Four people attended its sole performance," she reminded him.

He smiled at his old friend. "And I was one of them – and I say that it was a great play. And Jean-Luc agreed with me, my dear – and he is a man who knows great writing when he hears it."

"He also knows one should placate one's fellow officer – such as immediately after watching her make a fool of herself," Beverly countered.

"You didn't make a fool of yourself, Beverly; it was a brilliant play – and it obviously wasn't the first thing you wrote. I'm surprised we wound up in medical school together; with your talent for writing, you would have been a great author," he said.

Beverly shrugged. "Writing is... fun – but medicine is in my blood. My grandmother was a healer; I think I always thought I would become one as well," she said, then gave a soft laugh. "Then again, she kept a journal as well, so maybe my literary skills were also inherited."

"Writing a play is a far cry from keeping a journal," he reminded her.

"Well, we've been read by almost the same number of people," Beverly laughed.

Os sighed. "Beverly, Beverly... It wasn't your fault that the weather control system failed that night and no one knew how to handle a snowstorm in San Francisco," he reminded her.

"And by the time it melted, half of my cast had been recalled to their ships – and I couldn't take any more time away from Starfleet Medical to recast and restage the play," she admitted.

"The constraints of command, my dear," he reminded her, then called out, "Computer, end program."

The huge auditorium faded into the familiar yellow-on-black grid of a holodeck, and Beverly smiled at the man. "Stylistic content aside, though, what did you think of the paper, Os?"

He shrugged again, gave a sigh – then offered a crooked arm to her. "Come on. I promised you dinner," he said – then smiled. "You remember that last time we were all in San Franscisco? You, me, Eloise, and Jean-Luc? That dinner on Fisherman's Wharf?"

She smiled at him, took his arm, then followed him out of the holodeck. "Don't change the topic, Os; what did you think about the speech?"

"What do you want me to say, Bev? No matter who presents it, it's unmistakably Sherill's work; it's thorough, complete – and deadly dull. The only thing I have to say in its favor is that very few people are going to be bored by it," he added.

"Because no one is going to be there," she agreed unhappily.

"Keynote speeches aren't the focal point of the conferences, Bev – and noteworthy as Sherill's may be, no one is going to go out of their way to hear it. They know her work – which is brilliant – but they know her style as well – and brilliant is not the word for it. No; everyone I've spoken with is planning on arriving that day so they'll be ready for the next day's meetings – but no one I've spoken to is planning on attending your speech," he said. "If they had known you were going to present it..."

She smiled, patted his hand in gratitude, and shook her head. "You don't have to soothe my ego, Os. I knew what I was facing when I agreed to take Sherill's place. I guess my play was a good warm-up for this debacle," she said. "I hope you're still planning on attending," she added.

"Of course – though I'll be the first to admit that I intended to go only because this was the only ship I could find that was passing by Starbase 47 at the right time and heading out to the conference – and I didn't know anyone else who would be there so early. If I had..."

"If you had, you would have taken time to find someone who wanted to hit the golf course with you," she interrupted.

"Diving," he corrected her. "Eloise and I went to Pacifica last year and tried diving – and now we're both hooked."

Beverly smiled. "And how is Eloise?"

"Beautiful as always," he replied as they stopped before the turbolift door. "Had she known you were going to be on board, she would have joined us. You could have let us know," he added chidingly – then stepped into lift as the doors opened.

"Os, I didn't know I was going to be here until last week – and I didn't know what ship I was going to be taking until three days ago – and I almost missed it as it was!" she protested as she followed him onto the lift. "Deck ten," she added, speaking to the computer.

He nodded – then looked at her sharply. "That's right! I remember your last letter mentioned something about taking a vacation... with Jean-Luc, if I remember correctly," he added with a grin.

"That was the plan," she replied, ignoring the unspoken disapproval in his eyes, "then Sherill asked me to do this. I couldn't turn her down," she added.

"Yes, you could," he sighed. "All you had to do was say, 'no'."

"I owed her a favor."

"Not this big of one," he answered. "You gave up a vacation – with Jean-Luc – to give a speech that no one is going to hear. Beverly, my dear, you have very strange priorities."

"And you, my dear Os, are turning into a busybody," she countered.

He grinned. "Turning? Bev, I've always been a busybody – but you and Jack had fallen in love and gotten married before I could do anything! Eloise and I have had to content ourselves with finding mates for our children – but now that they're all married off, we have to content ourselves with matchmaking for our friends – like you and Jean-Luc."

"Except that Jean-Luc and I don't need a matchmaker; we're both quite content in just being friends, Os," she objected.

He chuckled. "Beverly, this is me: Os! I've known you and Jean-Luc for years; I've seen the way you too look at each other. Why don't you two just admit it how you feel about each other – and get on with your lives?" he asked. "You're not getting any younger, you know."

Beverly sighed and gave a shake of her head. "Tactful, Os; ever so tactful."

"Well, you're not. None of us are. You do know that Eloise and I are grandparents – again," he informed her. "That's been real wake-up call for us; time's passing, and if there are things we want in life, we have to go for them now, while we can."

"Hence the diving?" she asked, trying to change the topic.

"Hence the living, Bev," he replied, refusing to be deflected.

She sighed again, then shook her head.

"Look, Os..."

"Beverly, Jack's been dead for over twenty years; Wesley's grown..."

"He's got a girlfriend, you know," she interrupted. "They're pretty serious."

"He's almost twenty-five, Beverly; he had better be getting serious!" Os barked laughingly. "By the time you and Jack were his age, you already were married and had Wes!"

The lift stopped, and as the door opened, Os guided Beverly from the lift and into the hallway – but the woman who emerged was looking somber.

"By the time I was his age, I'd already lost Jack," she countered quietly. "I don't want to go through that again."

Os looked at his friend – then shook his head. "That's part of life, Beverly; you're a doctor, you know that death comes to us all – and no matter how hard we try to hide from it, it finds us nonetheless.

"But... you and Jean-Luc aren't on the front lines any more," he reminded her. "You're both desk-bound officers – and the most action either of you is going to face might be at the negotiating table.

"If you don't want a relationship with Jean-Luc, well, that's up to you. But... give the man a break, Beverly; let him know – and let him go. Give him a chance for a happy life, even if you won't give one to yourself," he said.

Beverly looked at her old friend coldly, his sharp words stinging at her heart.

"Os..." she began – then stopped as he raised a hand.

"I'm sorry; you're right – I am being a busybody – but only because Eloise and I care about you and Jean-Luc. But... I'll shut up about this," he added.

Beverly sighed relievedly.

"At least until after dinner," Os added.

Rolling her eyes, Beverly shook her head – then managed a smile. "What am I going to do with you, Os?" she said.

"For the moment, enjoy dinner with me – although I doubt the replicator will be up to the standards you must have gotten used to in San Francisco," he added

"With the exception of those rare dinners with you and Eloise..."

"... and Jean-Luc..."

Beverly rolled her eyes. "... and Jean-Luc," she agreed, "with those exceptions, I usually ate in my office – and my replicator is no better than the ones on this ship," she said.

Os laughed, then followed Beverly as she entered the officer's lounge, pointed at a deserted table, and took a seat.

For a moment, the two looked at the computer screen that displayed the replicator options – then Os sighed plaintively. "Not much of a selection."

"It's the standard replicator menu, Os," she reminded him. "You can always program your own specialties and favorites, of course."

"Providing you have the time and ability to analyze your favorites – and write a program that replicates that characteristics. You know, you should have had Jean-Luc download the Enterprise's replicator programs onto your system before he joined the Admiralty," he teased.

She gave him a curious look. "I don't understand."

"The scuttlebutt is that the Enterprise is supposed to have the best food in the 'fleet," he replied. "I'm sure Jean-Luc would have been willing to share with his best 'friend' if you asked him," he teased.

She looked at him for a moment longer – then smiled and nodded. "Oh, that. Yes, the Enterprise does have better than average replicated foods. When I was still aboard the Enterprise, we had an engineer who had a knack for reprogramming the replicators to enhance the taste and texture of quite a number of the food programs."

"Your Mr. LaForge is legendary," Os agreed.

Beverly smiled again. "It wasn't Geordi," she said. "It was... another engineer."

"Oh? Then Captain Riker could make himself a lot of friends if he were to share his engineer with the other ships and starbases, you know," Os countered. "Replicator food is good – but it's not great," he said. "It one reason I opted not to join Starfleet," he explained. "I love my food – and I didn't want to spend the majority of my life eating from a replicator – not when I can get good home cooking," he said – then patted his ample waistline. "But if Starfleet's replicators were as good as the Enterprise's..."

"Well, Will might be willing to share the programs – but not the engineer," she said.

"He's being selfish," Os protested.

She shook her head. "It's not a matter of being selfish," she protested.

"Then why not...?"

Beverly fell silent for a moment, looked down – and when she looked up, her eyes shone with a trace of unshed tears. "She... died," Beverly said at last. "Four years ago, just before I left the Enterprise."

"Oh," Os said, instantly repenting his lighthearted teasing. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. Was it during your run-in with the Remans?" he asked.

Beverly shook her head. "No. It was a few months before that."

"But your friend – Data, was it? – died during that encounter, didn't he?" Os asked gently. "I remember you mentioning it once when we were in San Francisco – you and Jean-Luc were going to take flowers to his memorial?"

She smiled. "We were – and we did – though I doubt Data would have understood why we went there. I guess I'll have to tell him about it when I see him," she added.

The physician gave her a perplexed – and worried – look. "When you see him? Beverly... Bev, is there something you're not telling me?" he asked worriedly. "This refusal to go with Jean-Luc, this insistence on paying off old debts to friends like Sherill? Beverly... are you all right?" he asked.

She studied him for a moment, confused – then smiled, understanding his concern. Patting his arm, she gave a soft laugh. "I'm fine. I was just thinking about Data's... brother," she said. "He had a twin – but he's... challenged. He wouldn't understand about flowers – and grieving and memorials. I was just thinking that the next time I see him, I'll have to explain it to him."

She fell silent, her eyes turning to the menu – but her thoughts far, far away. After a moment, Os reached for Beverly's hand once again.

"There's something more, isn't there?" he asked.

"No... I was just thinking... She – the engineer – and Data were engaged," she explained. "I... I gave Data my engagement ring to give her," she added quietly.

"But she died before they could be married – and then he died," OS said.

She nodded.

"Beverly, not everybody in love dies," he reminded her.

"No," she agreed, then softly added, lowering her gaze, "But the people I love..."

He stopped her with a touch of his hand, then raised it to her chin, lifting her face to look at his.

For a moment she kept her eyes downcast – then raised them, ready to confront her old friend, ready to argue that fate had decreed that those people she cared for were doomed to die.

But Os had heard that argument before – and he didn't believe it then – or now.

"Beverly, I'm going to let you in on a secret: Everyone dies – regardless of whether Beverly Howard Crusher loves them or not. Nothing you can do – loving them or not loving them – is going to change that basic fact – and you've got a hell of an ego thinking that you are that important to universe that your romances really make a damn bit of difference in the grand scheme of it all."

He tightened his grip on her hand. "But it does make a difference on those who know you – and would love you if you gave them half a chance! Beverly, we're all going to die – but it's not our dying that matters! It's how we live our lives while we're here that matters!

"But you're not living, Beverly; you're just marking time, waiting for death to take those you care about – just so you can make your point. By God, don't you think those two friends of yours who died wouldn't have given everything for another day together – yet here you go throwing those same days away, feeling sorry for yourself! It's appalling that someone who cares so much about helping others to live does so damned little about making her own life worthwhile! And to be blunt, Beverly, I'm really getting tired of watching you growing older, sadder, and more lonely year after year," he added angrily. "If you're not going to bother to live your life, would you at least have the decency to hide yourself away so the rest of us don't have to watch you suffer?"

Completely taken aback by the unexpected diatribe, Beverly felt her mouth fall open – then closed it firmly.

Furious – too furious to speak – she pulled her hand out of Os' grasp, jerked herself up from the table – and stormed out of the lounge.

Os watched her, then sighed to himself. I went too far, he thought... or maybe I went far enough – but too late. By God, Eloise and I have wanted to tell her that ever since Jack died... maybe even before, he added, remembering how somber, how reclusive his friend had been even in medical school, even before she had met - and lost – Jack – but there had never seemed to be the right time, never the right moment.

But today... Today, he thought, seeing those first grey hairs shining among the vibrant red strands, seeing the lines tightening around the corners of her eyes – and seeing her stand up at that podium, giving that god-awful speech, watching her life flittering away, caught up in some sense of obligation to others and a need to punish herself, to deny herself the joy, the pleasure of a relationship... it was too much, Os thought to himself.

I still could have toned it down, he added, repentantly. Not that it would have done any good, he admitted; she would have smiled, nodded, said she would think about it – and then she'd go right back to the way she was, letting her life drift away, damning the fates that she feared – but doing nothing to challenge them, nothing to fight for the happiness she could have had.

The happiness she deserved, he added, remembering the joy in her eyes in those first years of her marriage, the first time he had ever truly seen her happy – and remembering the grief, the emptiness of those same eyes after Jack had died.

She had disguised it well, of course; it wouldn't do for anyone – especially Wes – to see her grieving, to see her suffering.

So she did her suffering in private, he thought; wallowing in it, he added silently, reveling in the pain that she thought, somehow, that she deserved, refusing to let anyone else see, refusing to let anyone else help.

He shook his head. You don't deserve what you do to yourself, Beverly; you don't have to punish yourself for what you didn't do! It wasn't your fault your parents died... but she had been a child when she had lost them, he reminded himself – and children often believe that they are responsible for everything that happens around them.

And sometimes, there is no shaking that belief – even fifty years later.

Still, he added, you'd think that the death of those two friends of hers would have reminded her how fleeting life was, he thought, how precious... and maybe it had, he added, though not in the way that it should have.

Oh, Beverly, Beverly, time's a-wasting, my dear – and time is one thing that, once gone, can never be brought back, he sighed – then managed a smile as he heard his stomach grumble in complaint.

Something else that's a-wasting, he added with forced good humor, patting his ample stomach. Thank goodness I've never been one of those people who gets too upset to eat, he mused, then reached for the menu, glanced over the options available, and entered the order into the replicator.

She stormed into the room, seething with indignation.

How dare he! she raged. How dare he! Just who the hell did he think he was?! she fumed. Interfering in my life, telling me what I should – and shouldn't – do?! Just who the hell does he think he is?!

He thinks he's your friend, a more rational part of her mind insisted.

Friends don't do this to each other! she raged – then threw the padd at the mirror with all her might.

There had been a time – years, decades, centuries – when such a blow would have shattered a mirror, but time and technology had changed that long ago; a mirror these days was virtually indestructible.

Still, the padd made a noisy 'crack' as it hit the mirror – and for a moment, time stood still as Beverly watched the mirror flex and ripple under the impact the padd made.

In the end it held, of course – but the outpouring of her fury was enough to abate her rage; sobered, Beverly moved examine the padd and the mirror.

The padd was somewhat the worse for wear, a corner chipped and fine cracks radiating out from the point at which it had impacted the mirror. Worried that the speech that it carried might have been also been damaged, Beverly quickly thumbed on the switch, glanced over the readout – and sighed.

It was an awful speech, she admitted to herself; accurate and complete as Os had said – and dry as dust, without a single spark of life or joy.

She sighed, tapping a control, knowing that she owed it to Sherill – and to those few who would attend the opening ceremonies - to try to make the speech everything that it should be.

Which meant she'd spend the better part of the next few days locked away, polishing this rough stone until it shone.

So much for vacation, she sighed – the tabbed the readout off.

Turning to the mirror, she looked for any sign of damage to the surface, running her hand over the surface of the mirror – but, to her relief, it was flawless, unmarred by her act of rage and indignation.

She smiled sheepishly at the reflection of the woman who had just stormed into the room – then stepped closer to the image, and raised her hand to touch the reflection of her face.

A new wrinkle, she thought, touching the fine line at the side of her eye – and a new gray hair.

Time, she thought; there was a time when she had thought she would never age, never grow old, never feel the effect of time and effort on her muscles and joints – but the mornings were harder to overcome of late – and the image that faced her in the mirror less vibrant, less alive than it had once been.

I'm getting older, she told herself; I'm getting old.

Old – and tired.

Tired? Of what?

My work? No; I love what I do – when I get the chance to do it, she added, once more reminding herself that she didn't regret her decision to step away from the front lines of medicine... but there were times, she added reluctantly, that she missed having patients, rather than policies, as the focus of her work.

Then tired of what? she pressed herself.

I'm just... tired.

Tired of...?

Tired of my life, she admitted. Tired of moving through each day accomplishing so many things that mean nothing to me, and so few that do; I'm tired of acting out a life rather than living it.

Maybe Os was right, she thought.

But...

But I have obligations, she reminded herself firmly – including making sure this speech gets done – and done well.

She stared at the woman – the aging, graying, empty woman - in the mirror for a long time, then looked down at the padd.

Obligations, she reminded herself; obligations.

This meal was fodder, Os decided as the first dish appeared in the replicator opening, something to keep him alive and content until they reached the conference, where there the attendees would be feted, wined and dined.

Beverly and I will have to go out for dinner at least one night, he thought, some place quiet where we can catch up on old times – providing she forgives me, he added, remembering Beverly's remarkable temper – and her equally remarkable ability to hold a grudge.

Then again, the head of Starfleet Medical had certain obligations to those around her – and making nice with the conference attendees would be one of those obligations, he thought to himself; if she's still mad at me when we reach the conference, I'll just make it impossible for her to avoid me – and I'll apologize.

Even though I was right, I'll apologize.

He drew his spoon through the hot soup, raised it to his mouth – then dropped is as something smashed onto the table, jarring his soup, sending a splash of the hot broth across the table.

Startled, he looked up, looked into the glaring eyes of his friend – his former friend? he wondered, seeing her ravening expression.

"Damn you, Os!" she snapped. "Who the hell are you to interfere with my life!"

"I'm your friend, Beverly," he replied carefully. "I just want to help you."

"You want to help me? Fine – then help me," she said.

"Anything," he said instantly, hope filling him. "Anything at all."

The glare in her eyes suddenly turned sly – and a wicked grin crossed her face. "I'm glad you said that – because that," she said, pointing at the padd she had slammed onto the table, "is Sherill's speech. And you're giving it."

Os frowned in confusion. "What?"

"I have an obligation to Sherill to make sure this speech is presented – and presented well. So you're going to give it," she informed him.

"And you...?" he asked curiously.

Beverly smiled – warmly this time. "I have another obligation to fulfill. One to myself. I'm not going to the conference, Os. I've spoken to Captain Eldric, and she's been gracious enough to allow me to commandeer her captain's yacht. I'm joining Jean-Luc on the dig," she informed him.

He gaped for a moment, then smiled broadly. "Beverly, that's wonderful..." he started, pulling out a chair for her to sit – but she waved it off.

"I can't," she said.

"Surely you can spare an hour for dinner," he protested.

Beverly shook her head. "I can't. I have to pack – and even at maximum warp, I'll be two days late reaching the Enterprise." She leaned forward, planting a kiss on his cheek, then murmured in his ear, "And I've wasted enough time, Os. Give Eloise a kiss for me – and wish me luck."

He smiled, reached up, hugging her in return, planting a kiss on her cheek, and murmured back, "You don't need luck, Bev, you've got Howard determination on your side. Just take care of yourself – and make sure you give Jean-Luc a kiss from Eloise."

She pulled back, squeezed his hand – and grinned. "I will," she said, then spun on her heel, turned and strode toward the door, pausing only a moment to look over her shoulder and grant him a brief wave farewell.

A kiss, Os sighed to himself; she better give him a hell of a lot more – or the good doctor and I are going to have a serious talk about the facts of life.

He glanced down at the padd, splattered with hints of chicken soup from Beverly's assault on his table, then reluctantly tabbed the control switch.

He read the first sentence – then groaned and pushed away his plate.

There were some things, he finally admitted, that evening his stomach couldn't tolerate.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

He stood in the doorway of his dark bedroom, staring at the body huddled under the blankets, illuminated by the stars that shone through the panels that curved over his bed.

Four years, he thought, as he looked at her – and she still sleeps in the same way.

She lay on her side, one arm flung across the mattress, the other braced in front, keeping her from rolling forward – all habits she had acquired in the days when her injuries had kept her from sleeping in any other position – though in those days, she hadn't used her arm to brace herself: he had done that, one arm wrapped around her waist, holding her against him, keeping her warm, keeping her safe, keeping himself...

At peace.

Then, he added; now, his peace was a part of the past. It had faded after she left, fled from his soul after Data died, after Will and Deanna had gone to the Titan, after Beverly had returned to Starfleet Medical... His peace had faded, then left entirely – and he had found that he had no more need for it.

But she had, he knew as well: that was why she had gone to Cardassia, trying to calm the grief and pain that filled her soul by rescuing the children she had not saved before. It wasn't enough; it never would be enough; to her way of thinking she had sinned so grievously that she would never be able to make the amends even if she saved the universe.

Even now he could see the minute movements of her hands and feet beneath the cover, echoes of her restless spirit, unable to find respite even here, where she had once been still, calm, safe.

Would that we could each find that peace once more, he told her wordlessly.

He moved to the bed, then lowered himself to sit on the edge, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey," he said softly.

For a moment she did nothing, her restless sleep continuing – then her breathing changed, slowly growing deeper, the restive movements of her hands and feet slowing as she began to wake. After a moment, she opened her eyes, letting them slowly focus on the dark outline seated by her side.

"Mmmmm," she sighed quietly – then turned onto her back and opened her eyes to him.

"Hi," she said softly – then her eyes widened in alarm.

"They're fine," he said instantly. "Your children are fine. I checked with Dr. Ogawa a little while ago; she says they are all sleeping, and she's continuing treating them. She said that the will be ready to move to the holodeck before morning."

She nodded, relieved. "And S'bey?" she asked as she sat up.

"He's in sickbay with the rest of the children - sleeping," he assured her.

"Good," she said. "He needs his sleep. He always acts like an adult – but he's just a kid." She yawned. "What time is it?"

"Twenty-one thirty," Picard answered.

"Twenty-one thirty?" she gaped. "Gods, I've been asleep for..."

"Sixteen hours," he completed for her. "S'bey wasn't the only one who needed sleep."

"Apparently," she agreed, then asked, "so why did you wake me up? Or did you just want your bed back?" she added with a smile.

He smiled back. "In part," he replied, then grew serious. "Captain Riker has requested that you meet with his people regarding the holodeck arrangements at twenty-three hundred hours," he explained.

"That's not for another hour and a half," she murmured.

Picard smiled, hearing the unspoken protest at being awakened. "I thought you might like to eat first," he explained. "And get dressed," he added.

She glanced down at herself – then smiled. "Just like old times, eh, Jean-Luc?" she said. "Sleeping in your bed, wearing your clothes," she added, touching the soft fabric of one of his sleep shirts.

"It seemed the simplest solution," he explained. "You were half asleep by the time you got out of the shower. I didn't think you were up to ordering clothes from the replicator."

"Probably not," she agreed – then gave soft laugh. "That's the second time you've had to rescue me from the shower," she countered – then raised a hand to her head, patted her hair – and frowned. "And both times I've looked like hell when I woke up."

She pulled herself from the bed, moving to the mirror that stood above the bureau. "Computer, lights at thirty percent," she announced – then sighed at the tangled mass of hair she saw in the mirror. "Patchni was right," she said softly. "I never could keep my hair under control, the way a proper Romulan does.

"I don't suppose you have a hair brush," she added, glancing back at him.

He touched a control on the dresser, opening the top drawer, and removed a brush. "There may not be much left," he said, a touch self-consciously, handing the brush to her, "but I still need to take care of what there is," he said – then looked at her. "Do you want to tell me what happened between the two of you?" he asked softly.

She met his gaze – but her thoughts were locked on another face, unseen for years. After a moment, she shook her head, chasing away that image. "No," she said at last. "It was just... we both went into the arrangement with certain assumptions... unwarranted assumptions..."

Picard frowned. "Dee, Tiron swore to protect you to the ends of his life, his family, his fortune," Picard reminded her. "That was one of the few reasons I was willing to go along with the idea of sending you to Romulus," he reminded her. "If I had had any doubts..."

"There was nothing to doubt, Jean-Luc; he would have done anything – everything! - he could to protect his granddaughter," she interrupted. "But... I wasn't the granddaughter he wanted. I wasn't a Romulan – at least not the way he wanted me to be a Romulan," she amended.

"And..."

"And... I left," she answered.

Picard nodded. "I see," he said – then fell silent.

Neither spoke for a time – then Andile looked at Picard. "Would you mind if I used the replicator? Unless you want me traipsing about the ship dressed in your pyjamas?" she added.

Not that anyone _would_ see her, she thought to herself; Will Riker hadn't selected this late hour of the night just because he thought it would facilitate moving the children. He wanted to make sure as few people saw her as possible – and what better time than just after the beginning of the ship's night shift?

"Of course," he said, stepping back from the bureau, gesturing at doorway.

She moved from the dresser, passing through the doorway and into the living area.

For a moment, Picard stared at her – then quickly turned away.

Some things, he thought once again, did not change – and some things clearly did.

In the months they had shared a bed, she had taken to wearing his sleep shirts out of practicality: the low cut front had allowed for the tubes that ran from the various pieces of equipment that kept her alive at night – and most of the flesh it revealed was artificial – a synthetic fiber that covered the equally artificial plates that had temporarily replaced the bones that had been destroyed on the Breen ship – and the lack of the companion shorts had only been to facilitate her trips to the bathroom; with one arm barely functional, trying to remove the shorts quickly would have resulted in a scene that would have embarrassed and humiliated them both. As it had been, just trying to get her – and the concomitant equipment - to the lavatory without an accident had been accomplishment enough.

Tonight, however, the flesh that was revealed at the deep cut front was anything but artificial skin stretched over bony plates: the soft fabric shimmered as she moved, hinting at the rich, full curves that undulated undulating beneath the silky fabric, the hem of the shirt dancing at the top of legs that were long and lean - and that would have been deliciously interesting to consider – on another day, he added.

Tonight, there were other things to discuss.

"Given that Captain Riker doesn't want to let too many people know about me, I assume Geordi is helping out with the holodeck programming," she murmured as she ran her fingers over the replicator controls.

"And Worf," Picard confirmed.

She sighed. "He's not going to be happy to see me," she informed him. "You sure he's the best one to help out with this?"

"It's not my decision, Dee. It's Will's ship."

Andile stared at the man for a moment, then shook her head. "I forget; you're not a captain anymore," she mused.

"Not for a long time," he agreed.

"How long?" she pressed.

"A little over two years," he said.

"That's not a 'long time' by my standards," she reminded him, "or by yours – or you would be a hell of a lot more comfortable in the position than you are," she said – then fell silent and considered for a moment. "Two years," she repeated. "That was about the time you came to Cardassia," she murmured.

He nodded.

She shook her head. "You shouldn't have gone. It was too big of a risk, Jean-Luc," she protested.

"I didn't think so," he countered.

"Well it was – and an unnecessary one! I would have gotten out eventually – and if you'd been found out, the Admiralty would have would have dumped you in a second."

Which might have been for the best, he thought to himself – and if that had been the cost, he would have paid it. "I've had to make the choice between a career and friendship more than once; I've always had my priorities straight," he replied.

She studied him, then bit her lip softly. "Priorities," she said quietly. "I made Starfleet my priority – and Data died because he did, too."

Heartsick at the sheer grief in her words, Picard shook his head. "Dee..."

"But if he hadn't, you all would have died," she said, then added, "I should have been here. I could have..." she started – then abruptly turned away.

"I better get dressed," she said, taking the clothes from the replicator and moving back toward the bedroom.

Picard followed her, then turned his back, leaning against the door jamb as she began to change. "Will has arranged for the ship's quartermaster to meet with you so that you and the children will be properly provisioned before you leave for...?" he said coaxingly.

But the attempt failed. "Can't tell you, Captain... I mean, Admiral. What you don't know, you can't tell."

"Which means it's not a place that either of us should be," he answered worriedly.

"You're not going to get me that way either," she said.

He sighed. "Fine – but if you won't tell us where you're going, how do you expect us to help you?"

"I don't. I thank you for the rescue, for saving my children – but you can dump us on the next planet or starbase you pass by and we'll be on our way," she said.

"How?" he pressed. "You have no funds, no resources... Everything you had is back on that ship in the Bryona field."

She walked back to his side, now dressed in leggings and a tunic and gave him a caustic glare. "I can be resourceful, you know," she reminded him – then deepened her glare. "And no, I am not in the practice of whoring myself out these days," she added coldly.

"I didn't suggest that you were," he began, but she interrupted him, ignoring his protest.

"And even if I was fucking half the planet, it wouldn't be any of your business!" she added bitterly.

"Dee..." he began again, cringing at her language, wincing at the bitter anger in her voice.

"They're my children – my responsibility!" she continued, anger filling her words. "I'll do what I have to do to take care of them – whatever that is!"

His eyes widened at her outburst, then he snapped back, "Damn it, Dee! Would you stop with that self-sacrificing, woe-is-me-but-I'll-persevere-even-if-it-kills-me attitude? It's getting quite old – and to be blunt, I've had about as much of it as I can take," he chided her harshly. "No asked you to be a martyr – but if you insist on doing so, please spare us from having it shoved in our faces every five minutes!" he chided her harshly.

She gaped at him – then turned away. "I wasn't aware I was upsetting you, Admiral," she answered coldly. "Let me finish getting dressed, and I'll be happy to spare you my presence – and as soon as arrangements can be made, I'll be happier still to leave this Gods'-cursed ship!"

"As will I!" he snapped back.

She glared – then turned, striding back into the bedroom, the door sliding shut behind her.

Damn her! he thought, staring after her. Damn her! Needing help – and refusing it – all in the same moment.

He moved to the replicator, ordering a cup of tea, then took the steaming cup to the computer terminal and sat down before it.

Still seething, he took a sip of the hot liquid – then pulled back in surprise at the taste of the brew. He returned to the replicator, returned the cup, and said, "Computer, I ordered tea, Earl Grey, hot. This is coffee," he said.

There was an instant's pause while the computer assessed his remarks, then the faintly mechanical voice countered, "Your order was for coffee, double sweet, Admiral. Shall I replay the order?" it asked.

Picard stared at the machined for a moment, then nodded. "Yes. Replay last replicator order for Picard, Jean-Luc."

Another moment's pause, then he heard his voice – clearly ordering the potent black brew he had taken from the machine. He stared at the machine for a moment, confused – then raised his eyes to the door leading to the adjoining room – and smiled.

It's not going to work, he informed her silently, uncertain if she was aware of his thoughts or not – but not caring either way.

Taking the cup once more, he sipped at it, the intense flavor of the blend triggering old memories – then smiled once more. It's not going to work, he repeated, moving back to the computer, and beginning to make some entries.

Five minutes later, the door to his bedroom opened, and Andile emerged, her hair brushed, a pair of thin boots on her feet - and an expression on her face that said she was more than ready for a confrontation.

One, he mused, that she was not about to get.

"How much do you need?" he asked as she started toward the door that led to the outside corridor.

Startled, she turned to him, and gave him a perplexed look. "What?"

"I said, 'How much do you need?'" he repeated.

"For...?"

"You. The children. The transport. How much do you need?" he repeated a third time.

"I..." she started – then stopped. "One hundred and thirty thousand Federation credits," she said bluntly.

The amount drew an inhalation of surprise from the man; it was more – far more - than he had guessed – but he checked his surprise, nodded, touched the controls on the computer – and nodded again. "All right. The question is going to be how to get the funds transferred to you..."

"What the hell are you talking about, Jean-Luc?" she said.

"I have some funds available. Enough to cover what you need," he added.

She shook her head in confusion, then stepped around the desk and studied the terminal. "You're going to sell your vineyard?" she said, appalled.

"It's been on the market for some time," he explained. "I realized some time ago that even though I was on Earth these days, I didn't have time to run the vineyard on my own – and if I wasn't going to run it or live there, why keep it?"

"But your sister-in-law..." Andile protested.

"Marie doesn't go there anymore; too many bad memories," he said softly. "She's deeded the place to me – and agreed with my decision to sell it. There aren't going to be any more Picards, Dee," he said soberly. "There's no reason to keep a family tradition alive when the family is gone. No; let someone else take over the place while it's a going operation.

"And I've had several offers," he continued, "but I hadn't accepted any – yet. I will now – and even after I give Marie her share, there will be more than enough to cover what you need," he said bluntly. "

"But..."

"Admittedly, it'll take some time," he conceded, "but I can cover your – and the children's – expenses while you're waiting."

She studied the man for a long time – then shook her head. "Thank you, Jean-Luc – and I mean that. I was an ass..."

He nodded.

"You don't have to agree so quickly!" she snapped, then shook her head. "But... I can't accept it. Not that I don't want to – but I can't. It would be too easy for someone to track the money – from you, to me – and there would be questions. Your career – my life, the children's safety..." she reminded him.

"I can make sure the transfers are well-hidden," he countered.

"No, you can't – at least not well enough for me to be able to accept them, and not spend the rest of my life – well, at least not the rest of _your_ life – worrying about you. There are people who don't like you, Jean-Luc," she reminded him unnecessarily. "People who would get curious about why you suddenly decided to sell the vineyard, and spend time to track down who you gave money to – and why. They would use it against you – and if they ever found out the truth, they would come after me and the children. And I can't risk that," she said.

He opened his mouth to protest – then closed it again. She was right; the sale would be too public, too obvious... but there were other ways he could move money, he thought.

"Data has money," he informed her.

"Data is dead," she objected, "and I'm not going to take money from that thing that thinks he is Data."

He inclined his head in acknowledgement of her belief. "While we can argue the nature of _this_ Data's existence, I was referring to the man you knew as Data," he said quietly. "He died with a substantial estate, Dee – much of which he was from you – he was your sole beneficiary. As the executor of that estate," he said softly, "I've ensured that there are funds for B-4's care – but there is more than enough to provide for you and the children as well – and I feel that Data, either of them or both of them, would not object to giving – or loaning, if you prefer – sufficient funds to get you and the children to... wherever you are going," he said. "After all, some of it is your money."

"But... who will take care of B-4 and... that thing?" she asked.

"He's not a 'thing', Dee," Picard said gently, hearing the genuine concern in her voice. "He is Data..."

"Data's dead," she countered angrily.

"The being you knew as Data did die, yes," Picard agreed, "but Geordi..."

"Geordi built a new android that looks like Data. He has Data's memories. He has Data's personality. But he's not Data. At least he's not my Data," she said softly. "My Data died."

Picard studied the woman for a moment, seeing the terrible pain on her face – then took her hand in his and squeezed it tightly. "I'm sorry, Dee," he said with genuine grief. "This must be hard for you.

"Hard? You can't imagine," she countered. "I got over Data's death a long time ago. I learned to accept that he was dead. Then to see him again..." she said – then looked up at Picard. "Jean-Luc, you know as well as I do that they'll never let him back in Starfleet. Even if he could convince them that he is - or was - my Data, there were people that didn't like him any more than they like you – and he knew things that a lot of people didn't want to be made public. You know he did covert ops for Nechayev, didn't you?" she asked.

"I know he was seconded for a number of operations of which I was not officially made aware," Picard agreed. "His personnel file was sealed after his death – and even as an admiral I was denied access to his record. Since there was information in those files that had a direct bearing on some of my work, I can only surmise that Data had been made aware of – or at least surmised – facts that were dangerous to the Federation – or to individuals within the Federation – dangerous enough to seal the files against all eyes," he said.

"Add to that the fact he knew what I told him about Czymszczak," she agreed, "and you can see why there are those who can't risk having him rejoin Starfleet.

"And for that reason, his every move – and your every move relating to him – are going to come under intense scrutiny. If he's not Data, his memories of what he knows will have no credence in a court – but there are worse things for a political aspirant like Czymszczak to worry about. Courts he can address with his lawyers – but if word of what he did on Cardassia hit the news? His career would be over," she said – then smiled at Picard. "Yes, even out in... the places I've been," she said, hastily amended her thought, "I've heard about his aspirations to be Federation president. Scary thought, isn't it?"

"It is indeed," he agreed – then sighed in frustration. "Let me work on this, Dee; the funds that you need are available – we just have to find a way to get them to you, without risking your safety..."

"...or yours," she insisted, then patted his shoulder. "Thanks anyway, Jean-Luc – but I can figure this out for myself."

He nodded, willing to drop the issue for the moment, then rose from his seat. "I'm not going to give up this, Dee – and don't think you can 'push' me away from it, either; I'm on to you," he added.

She gave him a perplexed – and innocent – look. "I beg your pardon?"

He picked up the cup from which he had been drinking, proffering it to her, and smiled. "I'm embarrassed to admit it took me some time to realize what you were doing; Will's change in temperament in Alyssa's office, Alyssa's failure to insist on your going through treatment for the radiation exposure – my own bad manners in there," he said, nodding at the bedroom – then smiled at her. "I'd almost forgotten how subtle you can be when you're 'pushing' people to do what you want, Dee. And you would have had me – except that you forgot to lower your controls when I went to get a cup of tea – and wound up with coffee instead. Sweet coffee," he added. "I prefer mine black – when I drink it."

"Fuck," she muttered angrily.

Picard shook his head. "Not anymore," he informed her.

She looked up at him in surprise. "What? Really?" she asked.

"Dee, I'm over eighty years old – the time for sowing wild oats is long past," he reminded her.

"What about Beverly?"

"She isn't here, is she?" he countered. "If I had been important to her, she would be here – and to be honest, if she had been that important to me, I would have gone after her. No; the time for that has passed. I'm going to focus my energy on the other tasks ahead of me – like finding a way to get you and your children home, safe and sound. Provided you don't keep 'pushing' me to not help you," he added warningly.

She considered – reluctantly – then gave an even more reluctant sigh. "All right – but I'm only agreeing not to push you. Everyone else is fair game," she insisted.

Picard sighed, shaking his head.

She looked at him, meeting his gaze, then explained plaintively, "Jean-Luc, I won't – I can't – let those children come to harm. If that means altering a few memories here and there, then I'm going to do it. I have to – for their sake – and yours. I don't want Czymszczak coming after you or the Enterprise if this ever comes out," she said.

And he would, Picard knew equally well – and in his wrath and his fear at being find out, Czymszczak would take them all down – innocent and guilty alike.

He sighed – then gave a very reluctant nod. "Just be judicious," he advised.

"Better yet, I'll just stay cloistered away on the holodeck. If they don't see me, don't know about me, they don't have anything to forget," she said with a smile.

He nodded – but being invisible on a starship did not mean you went unnoticed. Gossip was the number one activity on a big starship – and the more anyone – even Andile – would try to suppress it, the more it would grow.

The only solution then, he thought, would be to limit it by taking the cause away – then smiled as a thought came to him.

"I don't like it when you smile like that," Andile said suspiciously.

He gave her a look of incredulous innocence, then changed the topic. "I promised you dinner; when was the last time you had poached chicken?" he asked.

She raised a brow – then grinned. "Not since that night you got me drunk," she replied.

"I did _not_ get you drunk. You had a glass of wine – not even that! Half a glass!" he protested – then realized she was teasing him.

"You are such an easy target, Jean-Luc!" she chuckled – then reached for his hand. "Poached chicken would be wonderful – but no wine. And while we're eating, I want to hear all about this dig of yours."

He took her hand, lacing his fingers into hers, then, leading her toward he dining area, began to talk. "It's not my dig; you've heard of Femishar, I presume..."


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Geordi looked at his companion as the two strode through the empty corridor, astounded by the suspicion in the Klingon's voice.

"Worf, you sound like you're not happy that Beej is on board!" he said. "After everything we went through - not knowing if she was dead or alive, thinking we'd never see here again – and all of a sudden she's here on the ship, alive – and you're carrying on as if you wish she had never come back!" He stopped, stared at the man – then shook his head again, perplexed. "I thought the two of you had made up; I thought you were friends!" he protested.

"We did make amends prior to her final departure," Worf conceded, "and I respected her for her actions and ideals... then."

"Then?" Geordi replied, puzzled. "And now?"

"Now, her presence imperils the safety of this ship and her crew," he reminded the engineer. "The charges of treason placed against her were never removed," he reminded his friend. Should she be found here..."

Geordi sighed. "Worf, no one's going to find her – because she's _not_ here. Didn't you hear what the captain said?" he said with a mischievous grin. "The woman the admiral brought back from that ship in the Bryona field is a Romulan, leading a ship of refugee Cardassian children."

"And that is not a reason for concern?" Worf countered grimly. "The treaty was never signed with either Cardassia or the Romulans," he reminded his friend, "and neither is at peace with the other. _Her_ presence – as human or Romulan – is a threat to the safety of this ship," he growled, "and perhaps to the safety of the Federation itself. If she were still an honorable officer, she would not have returned," he said firmly."

Geordi gave a nod, grudgingly admitting the Klingon's assessment was correct. "Yeah – but she didn't really have a choice about it, Worf. I mean, it's not as though she picked out the Enterprise to rescue her. The ship she was on was falling apart; a few more minutes, and they would have died out there. And her presence on the ship has the Admiral's blessing," he pointed out. "Officially, it's a goodwill act to appease the Romulans and the Cardassians before the next round of discussions – and if the Admiral has given his approval, it's tantamount to Starfleet giving its approval. And," he added, "you have to remember that you're not in charge of security anymore, Worf. It's not your problem anymore."

"As first officer, everything that happens on this ship is 'my problem'," he argued.

"Yes, but Captain Riker approved Beej's being on the ship as well," Geordi answered. "Unless, of course, you think the captain – and the admiral - are wrong," he added teasingly.

It was a jest, of course – but the glare Worf gave the engineer bore no trace of humor. "I would never argue against a superior officer's decisions – but it is my responsibility to present to him all points of view for his..."

"...consideration," the engineer finished with a sigh. "Yeah, yeah, I know, Worf. I've heard this from you for the last few years – and from Captain Riker when he was first officer to Captain Picard. The only difference is that he knew when to take a joke," he concluded.

Worf glared at his friend. "Klingons are noted for their sense of humor," he angrily informed Geordi.

"Of course they are," Geordi answered, trying not to roll his eyes. "Anyway, my point is that Captain Riker said that having Biji on board was an acceptable risk – providing we keep her out of sight of anyone who might have known her from before. That means getting the holodeck set up for her and those children," he said, then added, "Of course, we could just let her set it up for herself. She had a mean hand at programming the holodeck. Data once told me about..."

"Allowing a guest to program the holodeck would be a threat to the security of the ship," Worf interrupted.

"Beej is hardly a guest," Geordi protested.

Worf glared at Geordi. "She was logged into the ship's record as a Romulan visitor; therefore, the logs must continue to show her actions on this ship is in conformity with that original record – and non-Starfleet personnel are not permitted access to the holodeck computers," he reminded the engineer.

Which is probably why I'm going to set up the programs instead of Data, Geordi thought to himself as the two returned to their walk – then grinned. Probably I'm going to set up the programs because the two of them are going at it like... well, like whatever an android and a human would be like when they made love, Geordi decided, grinning at the thought of the two back together after so many years.

Maybe Data was right, he thought; maybe he did come back on line when he did because, somehow he knew Beej was somewhere close.

It made no sense, of course, he knew; he liked his universe to make sense, to be reasonable, logical and explainable – but then again, he'd seen too many things that reason, logic, reason - and good engineering - simply couldn't explain away.

Then again, it could all be nothing more than pure coincidence, he added. And despite Biji's historic disdain of coincidence, every now and then, the right thing did happen at the right time.

He grinned to himself once again, thinking about his old friends once more, happy for their reunion, happy for the possibilities that had been denied them now before them once again.

After all, he thought, they weren't the people they were before; Data had no commitment to Starfleet to honor – and Beej was, at least technically, dead. There was nothing to hold them back now!

He came to a stop as the two neared the holodeck doors, making sure he wasn't close enough to trigger the automatic door sensor – then reached out to stop Worf as he started to move too close.

The Klingon looked at the engineer concernedly. "Is there a problem, Commander?"

No," Geordi replied instantly, then added, "well, it's just that... Data and Beej haven't seen each other in a long time, and just thought they might, well... you know. Be... busy," he finished uncomfortably.

Worf gave him a confused look – which quickly turned to an astounded one. "Geordi, you do not think they are... mating... do you?!" he said, dumbfounded.

"Hey, it's been four years for Beej – and Data hasn't done it at all. At least not in this life," he added.

The Klingon considered that possibility – then looked at Geordi. "Are you sure he is capable of performing?" Worf asked.

Geordi raised a surprised brow at the idea; Data's sexual programming had been moved, intact, from B-4 to Data's new neural net – but his physical function wasn't something that Geordi had confirmed for himself.

That, he admitted, was something he had danced around as he had rebuilt the android's body, wondering how Data's original creator had handled the issue – or, for that matter, how any physician handled the problem.

He shook his head, imaging the scenario in Sickbay: Captain Picard having to discuss that kind of personal problem with Dr. Crusher – then grinned. That scene would never happen, he knew; the captain would rather go through life impotent than 'fess up to the doc about of problem of _that_ nature.

I can't see Captain Riker talking to Dr. Ogawa about that kind of problem either, he added – though the ship's rumor mill made it very clear that that was not an issue.

Still, if Data came back to him and said something was wrong... well, I'll deal with that problem when I get to it.

And I'll deal with this one now.

He turned to the holodeck computer and glanced at the read out. No program was running, he thought – and even after a four year hiatus, he thought Beej and Data would want something a little more romantic – and more comfortable - than the black and gold grid and hard metal floors of the unadorned holodeck.

Still...

"Computer, how many lifesigns..." No, that won't work; Data didn't generate lifesigns. Nor could he ask who was in the room; neither Beej nor Data wore a communicator badge, so the computer wouldn't be able to recognize either of them. "Computer, how many people have entered the holodeck in the last forty-five minutes?"

"Two," the mechanical female voice informed him.

So they are in there, Geordi thought. How am I going to interrupt them? he wondered. Knock on the door?

Seeing Geordi's hesitancy, Worf spoke up. "Computer, how many people have left the holodeck in the last forty five minutes?"

Good thinking, Geordi mused.

"One. Admiral Picard entered the holodeck at nineteen forty-seven, and left again at nineteen fifty-two," the computer said.

"And no one else has entered or left in that time?" Geordi pressed; as much as he loved his friends, he thought, he wasn't ready to walk in on them while they were... engaged.

"Negative."

Geordi gave a sigh of relief, then stepped close to the door to trigger the opening mechanism.

It slid open, revealing nothing but the grid – but even so, Geordi moved slowly as he stepped up to the door and peered hesitantly into the room.

And saw nothing except a small figure positioned at the far side of the room.

"Beej?"

The figure turned – and the smile that covered it almost lit the dark room.

"Geordi!" she shouted joyfully, running across the small area and leaping into his outstretched arms.

They hugged for a moment, then Andile leaned back, staring into the man's eyes – and frowned. "What happened?" she asked.

"Happened?"

"Your eyes," she said.

"My eyes?"

"I believe she is referring to your implants, Commander," Worf volunteered.

"Oh," Geordi said, then lowered the woman back to the ground. "Once we were out of the Briar Patch, the regeneration of the tissue began to regress; Dr. Crusher thinks we weren't there long enough for the effect to become permanent," he said.

"Oh," she said softly, raising one hand to his face. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't be," he said. "There was enough growth – permanent growth - to the optic nerve to allow implants didn't cause the pain I used to have with my VISOR. And while having real eyes was great, I had gotten used to the wider range of data that the VISOR and my earlier implants gave me. Now it's the best of both worlds," he said.

"Yeah, but they're not as cute as when they were brown," she sighed, then moved close, took his hands in hers, planted a kiss in his cheek, and grinned. "By the gods, it's good to see you," she said.

"And you," she said, turning to face Worf, who had moved into the room, the door sliding closed behind him. "Even though you're not happy to see me," she added.

"This is not where you should be," he agreed gruffly.

"No. Where I _should_ be is in the Bryona field, dead and frozen stiff, with the remains of my ship and the children floating around me – but the good admiral changed that, so if you have a problem with me – or my children – being here, go complain to him. I don't have time to deal with your paranoia," she told him coldly.

"Beej..." Geordi began quietly, "it's not paranoia. Your being on this ship could put everyone here in real danger. If anyone finds out you're you..."

"Fuck, Geordi," she snapped angrily, "you don't think I know what I'm risking being here?! Coming here wasn't my idea – and by the gods, I had no idea it was the Enterprise that was going to rescue us. But I had no choice – it was escape, or die. Is that what you'd prefer, Worf? That we had died out there?" she sneered.

The Klingon hesitated, then grumbled, "That is not what I meant. It is just..."

Andile silenced him with a pair of raised hands, nodded and drew in a long breath. "I know, I know. It's just that I am a threat to the ship and the crew – and it's your job to see to their safety," she said.

"Actually, that task is the responsibility of the ship's security officer," Worf corrected her.

Geordi grinned – and received a questioning look from Worf. "Those _are_ the responsibilities of the ship's security officer," Worf reminded the engineer.

"Of course they are," he agreed – then looked at Andile warily. "Are you sure you're up to this, Beej? It's late, and the last few days must have been a little stressful. We can do this in the morning; you and Data can just..."

"Geordi," she interrupted softly, "Data's dead. He's been dead for almost four years."

The engineer gave her a puzzled look, then shook his head. "Beej, Data's not dead. Didn't Captain Riker tell you? We were able to rebuild his body, to bring him back on line..."

"You built something, Geordi," she corrected him, "that looks and sounds like Data – but Data – my Data – died," she said firmly, ending that conversation. "And no," she continued, hastily changing the topic, "this can't wait for morning. Dr. Ogawa is finishing their treatments tonight and we'll be moving them here before they wake up to lessen the shock – so we have to have everything done in the next few hours. Fortunately, what I have in mind is not complex – nor," she continued, glaring at Worf, "is it a security risk. And don't worry; once we're done here, you can lock us in. The fewer people who see us, the better – for all of us," she added emphatically. "So let's get moving, gentlemen," she said sternly.

Geordi grinned, gave the woman a ferocious hug, then released her. "Now _that_ sounds like the Beej we knew and loved."

Worf looked at the engineer. "So did the one who was bad-tempered."

Nice to know I'm still loved, she thought, then began to describe her plan.

Two hours later, she looked over the vast plain that filled the holodeck, nodding her approval.

The field was covered with soft grass, long enough to be cool under the children's feet, but short enough that nothing – and no one – could hide in the stalks. Nor could they hide in the distance, she thought; the hills barely undulated, giving visual access to the entire field from any point – and making a sneak approach impossible.

Beyond the lush grass, however, the plain was barren – by intent. No trees marred the smoothness of the plain, nor did any rocks or boulders; no place in the field could conceal an attacker or provide an unseen location for that attack to occur.

It was tragic that we have to plan it this way, Geordi thought; no one should have to have lived a life like this – and at so young an age. What the hell were the Cardassians thinking, abandoning part of an entire generation to the worst their world possessed?

And yet they had survived, he thought – and would continue to survive as long as people like Biji could help them. And as long as we can help her, he added.

Not that he was volunteering to travel to the place they were heading – not if it was anything like this place, he added. It was hot, Geordi thought – too hot for his taste, but then again, Cardassia was a desert world, and high temperatures were the norm – as they would be in their new home. The children would undoubtedly be comfortable here – and certainly more so than they had been on the ship, if Andile's tale their ill-fated journey and about them passing out from hypothermia was true.

Not that he doubted her, he added quickly; Andile was never given to hyperbole – but if what she – and Admiral Picard – had said was accurate, then they had all come within hours – if not minutes – of dying on that ship.

Which would explain why she was so on edge, he added, watching the woman as she talked to Worf about the tents that would serve as the sleeping quarters for the children; Andile had never been the most emotionally stable person Geordi had known – but the realization that her actions had almost killed the children she had sworn to protect must have been emotionally devastating.

And learning that your former lover – your dead former lover, he added grimly – is suddenly back from beyond the grave could not have made the day any easier.

Still, that last piece of news should have been the source of some solace, some hope, he thought; once she realizes that her Data was this Data...

If she ever did, he added, making a mental note to find Data as soon as they were done, and discuss the matter with him. God, he thought, Data comes back to life, thinking that it was because Beej needed him – and the first thing she does it to reject him outright. He's got to be devastated! he thought. Maybe if she realized what this was doing to him...

"Geordi."

Andile's voice, soft and gentle, cut through his thoughts; he looked up and smiled at his friend. "We'd better get the tent program installed if you're going to get those children moved in here tonight," he advised her.

"Yes – and I would like to add in some type of water feature," she said. "I know that there's not much surface water on Cardassia, but there's nothing in their physiology that makes exposure to water a danger," she explained. "Maybe a shallow, slow-running stream – with a sandy bed? Something that's not threatening – and isn't going to make them muddy?"

"No problem – and once they're used to playing in the water, you won't have to worry about baths – it'll be easier to keep them clean," Geordi agreed.

And easier to get them used to the streams and ponds they're going to encounter once we get to their new home, she agreed silently – but no one, not even Geordi, needed to know about that.

"You'll need to be careful with the toddlers," he cautioned. "They can drown, even in a shallow stream."

"The children are used to watching out for one another – but S'bey and the two older girls will help me keep an eye on them," she agreed.

"Even so, you may want to disable the stream function at night – you don't want anyone wandering off to play in it while you're asleep," Geordi suggested.

She nodded indifferently.

Geordi sighed. "Judging from your response, that probably means that you're back to not sleeping – right?"

She smiled back at him. "I do sleep – but S'bey and I alternate, so we both get some naps, but someone is almost always awake with the children. But the sooner we get this done, the sooner we can move in the children – and maybe I can catch a quick nap before they all wake up," she said, a knowing look on her face.

Grinning, he took the hint, and began to touch the holodeck controls, watching as the stream manifested itself.

After a few minutes, they had a suitable depth and flow rate – then agreed on a location, close enough for the children to play in during the day without being far from the resting tents, but far enough away that if a child managed to wander away during the evening and seek out the stream, they wouldn't find it – and none of them would have to realize that it simply had ceased to exist once the night came.

I can deal with a lost child – but a drowned one is something else. I've lost enough people in my life; I don't want to lose any more.

Finally satisfied, she turned to Geordi and lay a hand on his arm. "Geordi...""

"The automatic sundown, sun up switch for the water feature should be sufficient for you needs, but I'll add a voice activator, if you want," he said.

"Not necessary," she said. "Alyssa will have fresh water for drinking at the tents; we shouldn't need the stream at night. Geordi, I wanted to talk to you about Data," she said softly.

The engineer looked as his former crewmate, his former fellow officer – his friend, and shook his head.

"He loves you, Beej. From the moment he came on line, you're the only thing he's talked about," he said quietly.

"Perhaps – but he isn't Data, Geordi. He looks like Data, he sounds like Data – he even has Data's memories. But so does B-4," she said quietly. "B-4's not Data – and neither is the thing you built. Make it easier for him, Geordi – for us both. Help him realize that those memories belong to someone else, to a life that wasn't his – and help him move on with being his own person, not a replica of someone who died four years ago," she said, her voice dropping low, almost becoming a plea.

"Biji..."

"Please, Geordi. Please help him find his own life, his own way – his own loves," she whispered. "For his sake, Geordi – and for mine."

Anguished, stricken, torn between the pain and need of his two dearest friends, Geordi stared into Andile's grief-ridden eyes – then nodded.

"I'll do what I can, Biji. I'll do what I can."


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

There were many – oh, so very many! – things Jean-Luc Picard missed about having command of his own ship: not the power, per se, but the camaraderie, the quiet of being light years from the political maelstrom the was the everyday atmosphere at Starfleet Headquarters, the independence that his relative power afforded him in conducting political, professional and private affairs – but, he thought as he entered his quarters, after two years of being away from the center chair, he realized he didn't miss the hours.

Yes, there were still the occasional days when sleep was a precious commodity, something that he could grab at, relishing the few hours that might be afforded him between negotiating sessions or between grueling conferences with adversaries more bent on killing each other than in finding some sort of peace – but, he admitted with a sigh as he reached his door, more often than not he could – and did – find a bed – and with a frequency to which he had become happily accustomed.

And, after more than two days of meetings with the archaeological team, Professor Femishar's incessant and unreasonable demands, the rescue mission, trying to deal with his perplexing old friend as well as the other demands of his job, all topped off with another – another! – interminable dinner with Femishar and his team, all with little more than a catnap caught on his couch, he was more than ready for a good night's rest.

What he did not expect, and admittedly did not want, was what he knew he was about to face he thought as he viewed the two android brothers seated in his living area, quietly talking.

It wasn't that he didn't want to talk with Data and B-4; indeed, he did want to do so – but when his mind was fresh, and when he could face what he knew would be the myriad of questions his old friend would have for him – and when he could provide some answers, answers that, he admitted, he simply did not have.

And might never, he added, knowing the personal nature of the majority of the questions that were going to be posed to him.

Dealing with personal problems, personal issues – that had never been his strength; professionally, he understood people: he understood what made them work as better crewpeople and officers; he understood the effects of changes in their personal lives, and how those changes could be addressed so as to best address the needs of the ship, of Starfleet, of the Federation – and of the individual, he added – but understanding those problems at a personal level – at the human level - that had never been his forté, he added soberly.

If it had...

If it had, things might have been different, he thought.

But it wasn't; I am who I am, and this is where, who and what I am now.

And what I am is _not_ a ship's counselor.

But given the expression of relief that covered Data's face as he recognized the newcomer, that was precisely what the man needed – and clearly, his discussions with Deanna had not been sufficient to the task.

Picard sighed, gave a wistful glance at the bedroom door and the rest that was denied him yet again – then reminded himself that one of the reasons he had been the captain he once had been was due to the fact that he had always put the needs of his crew – and his friends – ahead of his own.

Bed could wait, one more time.

"Data," he said quietly, his voiced pitched low in reflexive response to the late hour and the diminished lighting in the corridor hall that he had just passed through; even though at any point in time only one third of the crew was sleeping, he had never shaken the childhood habit of keeping his voice down during the darker hours of the day – even when that darkness was due only to a timing program in the ship's computer.

"Admiral," Data replied, rising to his feet.

Despite himself and the late hour, Picard smiled at the. formality. "You can call me Jean-Luc, Data," he advised the man. "You don't have to address me as 'Admiral' anymore."

"Yes, sir," Data replied – then frowned. "Then my status with Starfleet has already been determined, sir?" he asked.

Picard frowned back for a moment, not understanding – then shook his head. "No, no. I just meant..." He hesitated. "I just meant we've known each other a long time, Data – long enough to be on a first name basis."

"Then _you_ believe I am the same man I once was?" the android asked.

Picard studied the man, understanding the question all too well – and nodded. "I do, Data," he assured his friend, then added, "but not everyone will. Not just Dee – but others as well, including, possibly, Starfleet. Regarding your status as an officer, I doubt the reports about your return have gotten to the right desks yet, Data – and even when they do, making a determination about your status is going to be a long and drawn out process." He studied the man for a moment, then added, "If that's what you want, Data."

Data frowned – then looked at B-4, who had risen to stand beside his sibling. "We have been discussing that topic, sir – and many others," he added.

"As I can imagine," Picard agreed, then gestured at the chairs where the two had been seated, motioning them to retake their places. He started to follow them, then quickly redirected himself toward the replicator – only to see B-4 rise to his feet.

"Would you like tea?" the android asked.

"I'll get it, B-4," Picard replied. Turning to the replicator, he ordered the tea – then wondered if this was another topic that the two had discussed.

Not making tea, he reminded himself, but rather, what B-4's position was going to be in this new world: to remain as Picard ward and companion – or to take a place at his brother's side?

More questions, he thought – and more questions for which he did not have an answer.

He looked at the thin porcelain cup as it materialized, glanced back at the two brothers, then back at the cup, wondering if he shouldn't order a second, even larger cup.

It was, he thought with a sigh, going to be a long night.

Deeming moderation to be the better idea – and knowing that at some point he would finally get the chance to sleep, providing the tea didn't keep him awake - he took the delicate cup and saucer back to the living area, seated himself across from the two, then inclined his head toward them, urging them to speak what was on their minds as he sipped the tea.

"Your comment, sir... Jean-Luc," Data corrected himself awkwardly, "is correct. While my automatic response upon reawakening was to assume I would re-insinuate myself into the life I once had, upon reflection, and, having spoken with B-4, I am not certain that is the path I should be taking."

Data hesitated for a long moment, as if waiting for the admiral to prompt him, but, despite his protestations to the contrary, Picard understood human – and android – nature well enough to let the man broach the subject on his mind when he was ready to do so.

And when he was ready, he continued. "Geordi may have told you that I believe that my return to awareness was not due solely to his expert engineering," Data said, "that I believe the timing was not coincidental, but rather in response to a change in circumstances that necessitated that return," he said, half in questions, half a statement, to the older man.

Picard nodded, took a second sip of the tea, savoring the strength and the heat, then set the cup down. "He did," he said simply.

Data gave him a quizzical look. "You do not concur?"

"Your beliefs, Data, are your own," he countered blandly, then drew in a long breath. "However..." he continued reluctantly, "you must admit that espousing such beliefs suggests that an outside power is at work."

"Such a belief is not unusual, sir," Data countered. "Indeed, a majority of the crew – indeed, a majority of all the people within the Federation have such a belief system."

"Yes," Picard demurred, "but until your... return... you weren't one of those people."

"On the contrary," the android answered, "I not only have such beliefs, but I have experienced them myself. As have you," he added with a knowing look.

Picard gave him a quizzical look.

"Your encounters with Q?" Data reminded him.

"Ah," Picard said with a relieved nod. "But we have no evidence that suggests that Q – or any other outside power - is responsible for your awakening. Unless you know of something?" he suggested.

"No," Data admitted. "I just... believe it," he replied – then added, "But Ginger often said that such fortuitous coincidence was usually reserved for bad novels; I would prefer to think that my revival was not reminiscent of such a tale," he said.

Picard smiled, remembering the former engineer making the same remarks. "While I'm not going to gainsay her, Data, remember that at some point, even the most improbable events can occur; statistically, they must. This may be one of those moments," he said.

"Then you do not believe I was brought back for a greater purpose," Data answered.

Picard sighed, thought for a long moment, then slowly set down his cup. "That, Data, is a question every man – indeed, every society – has asked itself from the day it was aware of itself as a sentient being: Why I am here? What is my purpose? I was given life – but was it for a reason – and if so, what reason?" he said, then shook his head. "I don't have that answer, Data – not for you, not even for myself. It's one that you have to answer for yourself, in your own time, and in your own way. The only thing I can offer is one piece of advice: if you believe you were brought back for a reason, make sure you know what that reason is before you act. Too often, people have deluded themselves into thinking they are acting because of a higher purpose, only to have those acts be non-productive, counter-productive – or worse, destructive, to yourself and others. If I can give you one piece of advice, it would be to go slowly. Take your time. If you are here, as you believe, for a reason, then whatever brought you here will make sure you are in the right place at the right time."

Data looked at B-4, as though confirming an earlier conversation, then turned back to Picard. "We had discussed that same idea, sir," Data agreed.

Picard felt a wave of relief wash over him; perhaps Data's earlier comments had been little more than some sort of positronic overload, an effect of the return of power to his neural net after so long a dormancy, not unlike the bizarre dreams that had often accompanied his return consciousness after one of his surgeries. They had faded as his awareness returned; perhaps what Data had encountered was the android equivalent – and of as little significance as his own dreams had been, he added.

"And?" he coaxed.

Data looked at B-4 once more. Picard held back a smile, suspecting that B-4's contribution to that conversation had been limited to acting as a sounding post for his sibling – but finding Data's courtesy in referring to his elder, but limited, brother as a contributor to that conversation touching.

He has changed, Picard thought, but in many ways, he is still our Data.

"We concur with your thoughts, sir," Data said. "B-4 reminded me that if I was brought back to assist Ginger at the Bryona field, then I would have been on line and fully functional in advance of the rescue mission; as it was, my mental and physical condition at the time of the rescue prohibited my participating – even if I had known of the event."

Picard nodded again, his relief growing.

"Therefore, if I have been brought back to awareness for the purpose of assisting her, it is to do so on another occasion," he continued. "To return to Starfleet might preclude my being able to fulfill that purpose."

Picard sighed, letting go the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding.

"Data..." he began.

"But I can not determine that purpose until I have had the opportunity to discuss the matter with her. Sir, if you could arrange for me to speak with her..." he began.

Picard raised his hands, stopping the man in mid-sentence. "Data, I can't do that. Rather, I won't," he amended. "Dee... Andile has said that she does not want to speak with you – and I am not going to ask her to do otherwise. At least for now," he added a moment later.

"Sir?" Data said, hope rising in his expression.

"Data, she's exhausted. Mentally, spiritually, physically. She almost died on that ship in the Bryona field – and the children with her almost died as well. That realization is taking a toll on her – as is everything else she's been through in the past four years. Right now it's everything she can do to keep herself together for the sake of the children she's shepherding and get them where they're going. If you care for her – and I believe you do – give her the chance to deal with what's in front of her before asking her to address your problems," he chastised the man gently. "When she's had a chance to rest, to come to terms with those issues and find some answers, then – and only then – I'll suggest that she meet with you," he said – then hastily added as he saw the light in the android's eyes, "but only suggest it; if she says 'no', then I'll honor that response."

The hope in the man's face faded. "But sir..."

"Data, your memories end a few days before the battle with the Remans," Picard snapped in exasperation. "From your point of view, no time has elapsed since then! But Andile's been dealing with accepting your 'death' for almost four years! She's come to accept that. Now, you're suddenly alive again – and expecting her to pick up where you were four years ago? She can't do that, Data; none of us can! Give her some time, Data; if you love her as you say you do, give her time," he implored his friend.

"And if she says she never wants to see me, sir?" the android protested.

Picard sighed – then shook his head. "'Never' is a very long time – especially for you and Dee," he said at last. "She found a way to forgive the Cardassians for what they did; she forgave Starfleet for what they did; she forgave me," he added very quietly. "In time, she may find a way to forgive herself."

"To forgive herself?" Data replied, perplexed.

The old man shook his head, always taken aback by his friend's naïveté. "Data, she's not angry with you; that's not why she won't see you. She's angry with herself. She believes if she hadn't permitted herself to go to Romulus, you wouldn't have died."

"But if she hadn't gone to Romulus, Admiral Czymszczak would have put her on trial for treason," Data countered soberly. "Even if she had somehow survived the predetermined outcome of that tribunal, she would not have been on the Enterprise during the events that transpired with the Remans," he reminded Picard. "She knew that; indeed, her removal to Romulus was the only way for her to preserve her life."

"You know that, I know that - even she knows that," Picard agreed, "but I don't think that she believes it. I think she blames herself for leaving and not being here to save you – and she can't forgive herself for failing you."

Data considered the matter for a moment. "And she is punishing herself for that failure."

"That is what she does best, Data," Picard sighed. "Give her some time, Data; let her deal with the problems in front of her – and then she may be able to face you – and herself.

"And now," he said, rising to his feet, giving an exhausted yawn, "if you two gentlemen will excuse me, I have had a very long two days."

"And if you would excuse me as well, sir," Data said. "Geordi has asked me to stop in Engineering so that he may perform ongoing diagnostics," he explained – then managed a smile. "He does not believe I was brought back for a greater purpose, either, sir, but until he can identify what did bring me back, he will be no more satisfied than I am," he said.

The human smiled back, enjoying the android's attempt at humor – gentle and unforced, genuine for the first time. "Of course. Will you be going with him, B-4?" he asked, turning to the second android.

B-4 considered the question for some time – and once again, Picard was reminded of the inherent differences between the two androids. Data, even after only a few days after his revival, was quicker, sharper, more perspicacious, than his elder sibling – and despite all of Geordi's efforts, B-4 was no further along the path of development than he had been when they first had found them.

It stung at the man, seeing the difference in the two, knowing B-4 was technically the same as Data – but also knowing he would never be the equivalent of his brother.

"B-4?" Picard coaxed gently.

The android turned to the human. "Is Data going to Engineering?" he asked.

"Yes," Picard said patiently, reminding himself that what was obvious to him was not – and never would be – obvious to B-4.

"I do not like Engineering," B-4 replied.

"I know. You can stay here..." the admiral began.

"May I go to see the fish?" B-4 interrupted.

Picard smiled. "Of course, B-4. Captain Riker said you may visit any non-restricted area of the ship," he added.

B-4 considered this for an equally long time – then nodded. Without further comment, he turned for the door.

"I should accompany my brother to the arboretum, Admiral," Data said, starting to follow his brother – but Picard stopped him with a gesture.

"He's fine on his own, Data; he knows his way – and he'll return here when he's had enough time with the fish," Picard assured him. "He's come a long way since you knew him," he added, knowing the statement to be an exaggeration, "and he may need some time to come to terms with your return, just as we do. Give him some time to be alone with what's happened, to think about your return."

The remaining android considered that direction, then nodded. "Then I will proceed to Engineering, and leave you to your rest," Data said.

"Thank you," the admiral replied, then watched as the android left the room.

Picking up the tea cup, he finished the last of the brew, decided against a second cup, and set the empty cup back in the replicator. The porcelain cup dissolved into nothingness, and Picard found himself staring at the empty receptacle.

The man who had just left his quarters was Data, he thought; perhaps the body was somewhat different – the skin more flesh-like in color and appearance, the face more aged, the manner more... human... and yet, in his heart, Picard knew the being who was on his way to Engineering was the same man he had once asked to be his first officer.

The man he had once considered his closest friend.

The man he had failed.

I failed Data, he thought to himself; failed to save him when he had the chance. Instead, Data had sacrificed himself to save the ship.

To save me, Picard thought.

It should have been me, he thought; I should have been the one who died out there.

I failed him.

There had been another man he once held in equal esteem – and he had failed that friend as well.

Jack had died because of him; Beverly had lost her husband, her lover, the father of her son - because of him. He had let Jack down – and he had let Beverly and Wesley down as well.

He had failed them all.

He stared at the replicator for a long moment, then turned away and strode toward his quarters.

I failed them all – once. But not this time.

Entering his bedroom, he pulled a chair before his personal computer terminal, then accessed ship's communications.

"Computer, this is Admiral Jean-Luc Picard, requesting a secure frequency. Override ship's communication security protocols: override code sigma epsilon, three seven six."

The computer processed the request for a nanosecond, then replied, "Authorization code required for communications security override."

Picard smiled to himself, enjoying the irony of the moment. "Authorization code: Beverly."

I'm not going to fail you this time, he thought – then let his face grow serious as he punched a sequence into the computer.

Several minutes later, a Romulan face appeared on the screen before him.

"Mr. Hojit," Picard said quietly. "Please inform Senator Tiron that I wish to speak with him."

The Romulan looked back at him, surprised by the unexpected visage on his screen – then quickly adopted a sober and angry expression.

"Admiral Picard, I have told you before that Senator Tiron does not wish to talk with you..."

"He will this time," Picard interrupted.

"I beg your pardon?!"

"The Senator will speak with me."

"Admiral..."

"Tell him..." Picard hesitated for a moment. "Tell him I have found what he lost."

"Admiral..." Hojit protested.

"Tell him!" Picard snapped.

The administrator looked at Picard in astonishment – then the screen went blank.

For several long minutes the screen remained dark – then resolved into the image of a man Picard had not seen in almost four years.

Time had not been kind to Tiron; his once-robust face was paler than it had once been, the color leached from it, lines weathering into deep crevasses that outlined his eyes and mouth.

Worry, Picard knew – and finally he understood why.

He understood it all.

"Picard," Tiron said gruffly.

Picard bowed his head in response, then said the words Tiron had ached to hear for too many years.

"I have her. She's here, she's safe – and she needs you."


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

The door to the holodeck slid open.

Andile turned, already knowing it was yet another one of Alyssa Ogawa's staff bringing in yet another of the still sleeping children, settling them into their temporary new home, knowing that each child was now well on their way to recovery – a physical recovery, at least – each was bathed, dressed in clean new clothes, each perfectly safe and in utterly reliable arms – and yet she still turned, wanting to check each child for herself, making sure each was safe, whole, as healthy as could be... wanting just to know they were with her once again.

Andile turned, the welcoming smile – completely plastic for the incoming crewmembers, utterly genuine for her children – already set upon her face already.

Andile turned, the welcoming words already starting to stream from her lips, ready to direct the technician, nurse or doctor to whichever bed had been prepared for each child, ready to point to where S'bey or the two girls stood waiting, helping get the children settled into their new beds.

Andile turned – and froze.

"You... you..." she began, horrified, shocked appalled – furious – then stopped.

"B-4," she said at last, finally recognizing the newcomer for who he was.

Gods, she thought, he looks so much like Data does... did, she amended. Not at all like that thing that Geordi had built; that thing looked... almost human, she decided. Not quite, of course – but the golden skin was now almost the same pinky-rose hues tone that covered many of the people on this ship, the hair had lost some of its too-perfect color, taking on a hint of age and time, matching almost perfectly the aging skin with it faint pattern of lines and creases.

If my Data had been human, she thought, that was what he might have looked like.

But my Data looked like this creature before me, she reminded herself – except my Data died, and this thing is alive.

"Is there something I can do for you?" she asked with forced politeness.

He looked at her for a long time. "My brother would like you to talk to him," he finally explained.

Andile looked away, letting out a tired sigh. "B-4... I'm sorry, B-4, but I can't – and to be blunt, he shouldn't have asked you to come here," she said angrily. The Data she had loved hadn't been entirely beyond emotionally blackmailing her when the occasion required it, she reminded herself – but to ask his less-able brother to come in his stead was reprehensible. Her Data would have never done something like that – which only goes to prove that he isn't my Data, she protested in silent triumph.

B-4 gave her a troubled look. "My brother... did not ask me to come here," he said after several moments.

"No?" she said skeptically.

"He... He is in Engineering. Geordi LaForge wanted to perform a diagnostic. I wanted to see the fish," he explained.

Despite her anger, Andile smiled at the android's answer. "In that case, I think you got lost. There are no fish here," she pointed out, gesturing at the plain that swept out in all distances from where they stood, a gathering of rough shelters dotting the gently sloping hills.

"No fish," B-4 replied.

It took her a moment to realize that his response had been a statement rather than a question; he knew there were no fish here, she realized.

Which did nothing, however, to explain why he was here.

"Do you know where the fish are?" she asked him gently.

"The fish are in the water," he answered.

"Yes," she smiled back. "Do you know where the water with the fish is?"

"It is in the arboretum. Would you like to see the fish?" he added.

Andile sighed patiently. "I would, but not tonight. Tonight I have a lot of work to do. Would you like me to have someone walk you to the arboretum?" she pressed.

B-4 considered, then gave his head a single shake. "No."

"Would you like me to have someone walk you back to the Admiral's quarters?" she tried again.

"I told him I wanted to see the fish," B-4 said.

"But you came here..." she started – then stopped, understanding slowly dawning.

"You told him you wanted to see the fish, but you came here instead," she tried, suddenly realizing the conflict that his more limited mind must have been facing – and sympathizing with his attempt to resolve that conflict.

B-4 looked at her with what appeared to be relief. "My brother wants you to talk to him. I came to see you."

She nodded. "I understand, B-4. You're trying to help your brother."

"My brother wants you to talk to him," he repeated. "He asked the admiral to ask you. The admiral said he would not."

No, she thought, he would not; she had asked him to keep Data – or rather, this incarnation of Data away from her – and the gods praise Picard, he had kept his word.

But she had made no such request of B-4, she reminded herself – and out of love for his brother, he had come to here to ask for that same favor.

"B-4," she started softly, "I appreciate what you're doing, but..."

"My brother loves you," the android interrupted.

Stunned into silence by the remark, Andile stared at the man for a long moment – then shook her head.

"No he doesn't, B-4. The man who was Data loved me, but..."

"I love you," B-4 interrupted again.

And again, she fell into a stunned – no, shocked! - silence, for a long time before managing a weak, "B-4... you don't love me. You can't. You don't even know who I am. "

"I..." The android stopped, cocked his head as his mind tried to struggle with the concept.

It was a futile attempt; despite the best attempts by his mentor and guardian, the ability to understand ambiguous ideas and concepts was still far beyond his mental grasp; his was a world of absolutes.

"I know who you are," he said at last. "You... are part of me. You are part of him," he added after a moment. "He loves you. I love you," he repeated.

"B-4," she began again – and stopped.

Protestations and logic were all well and good – but he was right. When Data had transferred his memory to B-4, all his feelings for her had been transferred as well. That B-4 couldn't understand the true nature of those feeling was irrelevant; all he knew as that he did, indeed, love her.

He would never - could never - act upon those feelings, she knew – but that did not change the fact that they were, indeed, a part of him.

She studied him for a long time, watching the conflict play across his face, watching as the complete inability to comprehend the feelings that were implanted in him played against his limited ability to comprehend the very idea of emotion – and felt her heart break.

Varel loved me, she thought; Varel, with her so limited mind, damaged beyond repair by the starvation and deprivation her people had forced upon her when she was only an infant; Varel who could not, and would not ever be able to speak; Varel who could barely tend to her own, extremely basic needs; Varel loved me. That Varel had been no more capable of understanding that emotion than B-4 was didn't mean that she didn't understand it, Andile reminded herself; Varel had loved her.

B-4 loved her.

"Would you like to help me?" she asked at long last, her heart reaching out to this creature who would never be able to fully understand what the feelings he possessed had meant to their original owner.

A look of vague relief crossed his face, as though the conflict he couldn't understand was being resolved in an equally incomprehensible manner – but he said nothing. Instead, he cocked his head, waiting for more information.

"We're putting the children into their beds. Would you check them to make sure they are asleep? If they start to wake up, let me know," she explained.

"I know when the Admiral is waking," B-4 replied.

"Oh?" she answered, curious.

"I hear him. I make his tea. Earl Grey. Hot," he continued.

Andile smiled. "That's the admiral, alright."

"Shall I make tea for the children when they wake up?" he pressed.

"Uh... no," Andile answered with a smile. "I don't think the children will want tea. But you've got a point; they will be hungry when they wake up," she mused. "We'd better start thinking about breakfast," she added.

"What shall I think about breakfast?" he countered.

She stared at him for a long moment – then reminded herself how literal he was – and would always be. "You should think about where we can spread out blankets so the children can eat out in the sun."

"It is hot in the sun," he replied.

"Yes, but they are Cardassians," Andile replied. "They're used to higher temperatures than we are."

"It is very hot," B-4 answered.

"Yes, but..." she started – and stopped again.

It was very hot, she thought – and while the children were from a planet noted for its high temperatures, it had been a long time – a very long time – since any of them had been exposed to strong light and heat.

Working up to regular exposure during the duration of their trip might be a good idea – a very good idea, indeed.

"You're right, B-4. It is very hot. I'll ask Geordi to decrease the temperature a bit, then we'll slowly build it up as they develop some resistance to the heat – and I think a few big umbrellas over the eating area might provide some extra shade. Too bad there aren't any trees," she sighed wistfully.

"The arboretum has trees," B-4 offered.

"Yes – but the trees scare the children. It reminds them of places where people – bad people, people who wanted to hurt them – would hide," she explained.

B-4 contemplated that idea for quite some time – then looked back at Andile.

"I will protect them," he said at last.

"Thank you, B-4," Andile replied, "but..."

The faint sound of a child's cry interrupted the two; Andile turned toward the android, about to direct him to stay where he was – but B-4 had already begun to move, instantly locating the source of the sound and moving smoothly toward the source of the sound.

S'bey had heard the cry as well; turning, he saw Andile and B-4, then watched as the android stepped away from the woman, saw the look of concern on her face – and hurried to intercept the machine.

"Stay back," he said angrily, planting himself between the child and the android.

Andile raised a brow; despite the fact that the lad knew Federation Standard – and could speak it well – he rarely did so. That he chose to do so now told her of the level of his concern.

"The child cries," B-4 countered, as though that were explanation enough. "I will protect the children."

Perplexed, but unwilling to yield, S'bey held his place. "I said, stay back," he said firmly.

"S'bey," Andile said placatingly, hurrying up to the two.

"Stay back, Komiada," S'bey snapped. "You, too," he hastily added as B-4 moved toward the noise once again.

"The last time I checked, I was the one who gave the orders here, S'bey," Andile replied tersely. "That goes for you, too, B-4. No one is to do anything with these children unless I say so," she added, reminding herself of the literalness of the android's mind.

Even so, B-4 looked at her, conflict raging in his eyes once again. "But... the child cries," he protested.

"It's just a bad dream," she answered, having heard the cries, having felt the nightmares often enough to know their source – and to know they would fade away, even without their intervention. "It will go away," she added.

"But... the child cries," B-4 repeated plaintively, almost desperately.

Desperation? From something – someone – who was not supposed to be able to feel? Andile thought – and instantly relented, realizing the conflict that must be tearing the android apart.

"All right," she relented. "Go to him," she added, then looked at S'bey.

"We're going to need a hand, S'bey; if he's capable..." she started.

"He may be capable, Komiada, but can we trust him?" the young man asked.

Andile studied the android as he found the troubled boy, watching as the android crouched low beside the child, lay a gentle hand on the child's shoulder, and said something softly. A few moments later, the child's cries faded, and B-4 adjusted the blanket over the once again calm form.

Still, he didn't rise to his feet, but rather, remained where he was, awkwardly positioned beside the child, his hand still resting on the boy's shoulder.

And there he would stay, Andile realized, oblivious to his own discomfort, to his own needs, to anything and everything, until he was called upon by another child.

More than one person had said he would do anything for love, Andile thought – but for most people, those words were nothing more than lip service.

Data, though... Data had been different. Data had loved her – but he had loved Picard and the others on the Enterprise as well. Dying had meant little to him – when compared with the knowledge that his friends, his lover, would be left in a universe that was safe from a threat that no one else could eliminate.

He had died for them, for her – and yet a part of him, that glorious, magnificent part of him that had loved others more than he had loved himself lived on in the being who now knelt beside a sleeping child.

She turned to S'bey. "Can we trust him?" she repeated softly. "Oh, yes, S'bey. We can trust him, to the ends of time itself."

She looked at the android once more, then turned back to her companion. "I've never told you about what happened on this ship, have I, S'bey?" she said, then took the young man by the arm and led him back toward the holodeck entry. "There are many things I can't tell you, but there was a man – a wonderful man – named Data..."


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Every child finds a place for himself in a family, Uncle Hani once told him. If one child is cruel, the next may be kind; if one is gentle, the next bold. We each need to find a way to make others recognize us as being different from our siblings.

It isn't good; it isn't bad. It's just the way we are, he had said.

Which is why I am as I am, Asfad Qasmieh told himself.

Hani, his older brother, was a brilliant and dynamic politician – just as had been the beloved uncle for whom Hani had been named; Jasfara, the older of his two sisters, a dedicated scholar; Shamila had found her place being a dutiful daughter, loving wife and doting mother.

Those niches in his family had been filled long before he born – and having grown up in a family where these noble and honorable places were already occupied, Asfad had found one for himself, one that none of the others occupied, one that would make his mark upon the family as bold and as individual as theirs were.

Asfad Qasmieh was a weasel.

Not officially, of course. Asfad's parents boasted to their friends that their youngest son was _the_ executive assistant to Admiral Thaddeus Czymszczak – the youngest, the brightest, and the fastest rising admiral in all of Starfleet – indeed, in all of Starfleet's history! – and their son, their little Asfad, was responsible for making sure that everything the admiral needed or wanted was attended to quickly, promptly, efficiently and correctly.

Indeed, they hinted, the admiral wouldn't be who he was or where he was, without Asfad's able assistance!

True enough, Asfad conceded – but more often than not, that 'able assistance' entailed doing things that others would have balked, things that were too contemptible, too odious for those who thought themselves more scrupulous than Asfad – things, Asfad knew, that would earn him the praise and recognition his siblings had received so easily throughout their lives – the recognition he had never received.

Or earned, he knew; he wasn't bright, he wasn't dutiful, he wasn't honorable or noble.

So he found a place for himself where he could earn those commendations he so desired.

And if that meant doing what others found reprehensible, then so be it.

Self-righteous prigs, Asfad thought to himself whenever he thought about those others – which was far more often than he would admit. They claim themselves too high and mighty to dirty their hands – but they're the first ones at the trough when it's feeding time, he reminded himself. At least I know what goes into every victory, every triumph of the Federation and the Admiralty; I know, because I'm there to do the work.

You want peace and prosperity throughout the Federation? he asked them silently. Then be thankful that there are men like me – and Admiral Czymszczak, he would grudgingly add – doing what has to be done to make sure that that's what we have.

And if a few laws get bent or broken, a few lives compromised, a few reputations ruined, well, the cost was small enough compared to what was gained.

Reassured, self-satisfied, Asfad glanced at the inbound report that had just appeared on his computer monitor, checked the authenticity code to confirm that the unsigned report came from one of Czymszczak's agents, then began to read the report.

After all, a man like Czymszczak couldn't be expected to read _every_ report that his agents sent him, Asfad reminded himself. It was his job to review the reports, prioritize them, then forward the important ones – and the ones that had the potential to become important – to Czymszczak's attention. In a way, Asfad thought smugly, it means I know more than the Admiral does about what's happening in Starfleet – and it's up to me to decide what is and isn't important! Restrict this paper – and Czymszczak makes this decision! Forward that paper – and the Admiralty votes a different way!

It's all up to me! Asfad gloated. In my way, I control Starfleet – and they have no idea!

He grinned to himself as he read through the paper – a relatively insignificant report – then instantly dropped the grin as a faint commotion in the hallway outside the Admiral's office began to draw closer.

Rising to his feet, he grabbed at the padds that covered his desk, quickly shuffling them into the proper order, then hurried to the door.

It opened to a rush of air and humanity as a dozen people entered, clustered around a central figure of youthful power and energy that pushed through the room, oblivious to both Asfad's armful of reports and his expression of nervous submission.

"Prepare a report on the Regency sector's readiness plan should the negotiations with Cardassia fail. They'll bordering the Cardassian neutral zone; I want the report to infer that should we not succeed with this round of negotiations, the sector will be absorbed in the next expansion," Admiral Thaddeus Czymszczak said into the air, knowing that the proper assistant would hear the directive and hurry to comply.

Or not.

"The Cardassians aren't in a position to expand, Admiral," an anonymous voice answered. "Our last report indicates they're focused on resolving internal issues – and our operatives indicate that that is not likely to change within the next eight months."

Czymszczak stopped in mid-stride, turned to face the voice, then said quietly, "I didn't ask what the report said; I said to prepare a report indicating what I said. Now do it," he ordered, his voice quiet and firm.

The man who had spoken stared at the admiral for a moment, uncomprehending – then nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll have it to you by day's end," he said, then raced off.

Czymszczak nodded approvingly while making a mental note to watch this young upstart - then turned away, calling out more orders as he walked, each attendant hurrying away as the directive was issued. As he reached the door to his inner office, he once again found himself alone – as he did every morning.

It was a point of pride; to have the day's work ready to be assigned before he left his private residence, and to time those assignments so the last one would be done just as he reached his office, leaving him to review the really important work in peace and quiet.

Relative peace and quiet, he amended an instant later, barking out a harsh, "Asfad!" as the doors slid open and he entered his spacious private workplace.

Despite the forcefulness of the command, Asfad automatically slowed as he entered the room, taken aback, as he always was, by the exquisite furnishings of the space.

One day, he thought to himself, one day, I will have a office like this – thick carpets, art works from dozens of different species, the huge wood desk that filled almost half the room... He grinned to himself, knowing from his discussion with the assistants to the other admirals that no one else had an office an richly appointed as this one – but then again, no other admiral had Asfad Qasmieh as an assistant.

And one day, one day I will be the one in the position of power; one day, I will have an office just like this, he told himself.

"Eyes to the present," Czymszczak murmured as he sank into the deep leather chair that stood behind the massive desk.

"Pardon?" Asfad replied.

"Keep your eyes to the present, Asfad," Czymszczak repeated as he tabbed open his computer screen. "The best way to be recognized – and promoted – to another position is to focus all your efforts on the job you have."

Yes, sir," the assistant replied, humiliated at having been caught out by Czymszczak – again. "But your office is..."

"It's an office, Asfad," Czymszczak interrupted brusquely. "A place where I do business," he added.

Yes, Asfad agreed – business both public and private. The public

work was a matter of perfectly documented record; the private work... well, what went on behind the closed doors was no one's business except Czymszczak's – even Asfad was not privy to those conversations – but almost invariably they were followed by an unexpected outcome in a vote in the Admiralty or the Federation Council – and those votes were usually followed by the arrival of some exquisite gift for the office.

Hence the beautiful wood desk from Alzarra II, when such things were unknown on Earth but for antiques that had survived from centuries before; hence the preciously unobtainable original Diminia sculpture on the corner of that desk; hence the leather chair from Sancto.

Leather, Asfad thought wistfully; once there had been a time when such goods were available on Earth, he knew – but the cost to the planet and the ecosystem of raising herd animals to feed and dress a population of over six billion had made the slaughter of cattle an extravagant and appalling waste – especially when replicators could make similar substances that didn't harm the planet or the beasts.

And, he admitted to himself, he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to eat meat from a living animal, or to sit on a chair made of its skin. Somehow, it was just... wrong.

For me, he amended hastily, not about to decry Czymszczak for his possessions, even in the privacy of his own thoughts; it's not right for me – but for Admiral Czymszczak – well, he's more worldly than I am – and more worthy. He's earned what he has! he insisted silently.

As I will earn what I get, he told himself; I'll earn it because I'll work hard for it, he added, reminding himself that no task was too low, as long as he kept his eye on the prize ahead of him.

But keep an eye to the present as well, he thought a moment later, reminding himself before Czymszczak caught his mind drifting again.

"I have the agent reports from yesterday," he said. "Nothing of note," he added promptly, not wanting to waste the admiral's time by having to be coaxed into revealing the reports information. "Damage to the Excalibur's engines in war games..."

"Collins is chief engineer," Czymszczak murmured to himself, mentally pulling out the engineer's personnel file. Not the best engineer in the fleet by a long shot – but his parents had been very generous when he had aided the young man in getting in the Academy years before – and more so each time their less-than-stellar son had needed a promotion. Being made Chief Engineer had cost them a small fortune – but being responsible for damaging a starship's engines might be more costly in the long run, Czymszczak thought. Still, accidents do happen during war games – and this might be nothing more than the anticipated wear and tear Starfleet expected.

"Get me an analysis on the cause," he ordered.

"Yes, sir," Asfad replied quietly.

He had already done so, of course – but Czymszczak didn't need to know that; there were some things – such as knowing exactly how clever Asfad really was – that the admiral simply did not need to know. If he did, Asfad reminded himself, he might see him as a threat to his position – and his fate might be no different from that of a dozen others whose activities and intelligence had gotten in the way of the admiral throughout his career.

Injuries, early retirements – even tragic deaths on a few occasions... The admiral let nothing get in his way – but, Asfad reminded himself, he did so carefully. Nothing could be traced back to him – then, or now.

Even Asfad could prove nothing of what he knew Admiral Thaddeus Czymszczak had done; knowing wasn't proof – and whatever acts Asfad had committed on Czymszczak's behalf could never be verified as having come from that source.

Nor could Czymszczak be held responsible for the ones that would inevitably come in the future – including the tragic accident that would soon befall the Chief Engineer of the Excalibur, Asfad knew.

Oh, not immediately, he added silently; even if the damage were to prove to be Collins' fault, there would be no immediate repercussions – but during the leave that would be granted to the crew on their next leave, there would be an accident, and Collins would be removed from his post before he could cause real damage to one of Starfleet's ships.

Not a permanent accident, Asfad decided; Collins' parents were too wealthy and too powerful to risk losing as benefactors; indeed, the Admiral would probably spend time personally checking on the young man as he recovered and even be sure to find him a prestigious post somewhere safe, where he could not possibly harm anyone or anything – and one for which his parents would be eternally grateful, Asfad thought.

Eternally, he added with a soundless chuckle; little did they know how accurate that phrase was – but there were more than a few wills out there that named Czymszczak as a beneficiary.

Not the only beneficiary of course – and the gifts appeared as nothing more than tokens of appreciation – but underneath that subterfuge were the charitable foundations that would be funded by the same wills – foundations that were secretly controlled by the admiral.

Asfad smiled; not long ago, there had been a motion before the Admiralty to block any involvement in private foundations by the Starfleet elite – a motion that would have cut Czymszczak off from his growing fortune and the working capital that funded his current work across the quadrant. The proponent of the idea had no evidence of wrong doing by anyone within the Admiralty, and certainly nothing to suggest that Czymszczak was doing exactly that; he was just acting on the side of caution, Asfad had determined.

And, Asfad learned, acting on the side of gathering the best possible public awareness, one that would gather him a significant amount of publicity, moving him to the front of the Admiralty as a loyal and caring representative of the citizens of the Federation – but that spotlight was not one that Czymszczak was willing to share.

The Admiral had quickly moved to approve the bill, urging his fellow Admirals to support the regulation, praising the recommendation – and moving it out of the spotlight as quickly as possible, and with so little contention that whatever controversy it might have raised disappeared in a matter of days – and with it the political aspirations of its original proponent. A law that passed that easily clearly and with such open approval by every member of the admiralty clearly meant that no one was misusing their position in that manner, the originator had realized; if there was a controversy to move him into the public eye, this wasn't it.

And so, when the law was repealed a few months later, due to a critical error in the wording, no one thought to rewrite the law, deeming it unnecessary.

Asfad smiled, remembering how he had managed to have the administrative assistant who was responsible for drafting the law to insert the erroneous wording; to all outward appearances, the final draft seemed flawless – how was anyone, except the high court, to know that the inserted subclause had been ruled invalid over a generation before?

Of course, even if the law had remained on the books, there would have been ways to keep the foundations hidden – but Czymszczak had taught him long ago that it was easier to shape the law to fit your needs than to try to fit your needs to the law.

The foundations and the money they funneled into Czymszczak's coffers were politically incorrect, possible immoral, and potentially devastating to the Admiral's career – but they were perfectly legal.

Still, what the public didn't know would not hurt them – or the admiral.

"Stop daydreaming," Czymszczak murmured, not even looking up from his computer screen; after two years of having Qasmieh as his assistant, he knew each of the man's foibles and failings, including the tendency to drift off in dreams of a future.

"Sir?" Asfad replied, startled back to the present once again.

"Finish your report," Czymszczak said.

"Yes, sir! Our agent on the Enterprise reports there was an emergency rescue of a ship that was damaged in the Bryona field," the man said. "Thirty Cardassian children and their guardian were rescued."

"A rescue of Cardassian children," Czymszczak murmured. "And this is important because...?"

"Because their guardian is Romulan," Asfad said.

Czymszczak's head snapped up.

Startled, Asfad continued, "You said you wanted a report on every untoward event involving the Romulans..."

The admiral cut him off sharply. "I know what I said, Qasmieh," he snapped, then fell silent, thinking.

After a moment he looked back at his admin. "Do we know anything about the Romulan?"

Qasmieh shook his head. "It's a preliminary report, sir; our agent posted it as soon as he could – but it appears that little about the situation was known at that time," he explained.

Czymszczak raised a brow. "And when was that time?" he pressed.

"The incident occurred approximately thirty-six hours ago, sir," Asfad replied.

"Thirty-six hours out," Czymszczak muttered, shaking his head. "God knows what the situation might be by now."

"Sir?"

The admiral affixed the man with a cold glare. "The Romulans view Riker – the whole damned crew of the Enterprise – as some kind of heroes after that debacle with the Remans," he said. "If he starts spouting off about repairing Romulan Federation relations, it may just start the whole reconciliation process moving again."

Which is precisely what Czymszczak wanted, Asfad knew – but with himself as the key figure in the process, not William Riker.

"Yes, sir – but this Romulan might not be anyone of importance," he demurred.

"The Romulans won't care – not if they want the peace process to start up again – and considering the condition the Remans left their world in, they'll take any opportunity they can get," Czymszczak replied.

The Remans, Czymszczak thought – or rather, one Reman: Picard's clone. God alone knew how they had managed to extract the cellular material to initiate the process, or how they had ever thought to pull it off, he added. It was one thing to substitute a man for his twin – but there was no way they would ever be able to pass the clone off as Picard, he thought; the experiences of life imprint upon us in ways far too subtle for anyone to be able to successfully ape for more than a day or two – and almost eighty years of life had made their marks on Picard in ways no one, identical or not, would ever be able to fake.

No, that idea had been doomed from the start. The only good that had come out of it was a naïve youngster with an ego big enough to believe he could avenge himself on the people – all the people – who had been responsible for his creation and his life.

And naïve enough to believe that all the good fortune that had fallen upon him – his timely emancipation from the Reman hell, the ability of his fellow creatures to build a massive warship with technology that even the Federation didn't possess, their remarkable ability to suborn the key people in the key government posts at just the right times...

Czymszczak shook his head. It had never occurred to Shinzon that fortune just doesn't happen that way – that it needed help.

Help that came from the most unexpected places, he added.

Of course, had everything worked out just as Shinzon had planned, Czymszczak would have quickly used those same people who had helped to empower the upstart to bring him crashing down, leaving the Romulan empire in ruin – and ready to sue for peace with the Federation – with Czymszczak leading the way.

But things hadn't worked out – Czymszczak had never thought they would - and he had been there, read to move in, ready to ease the Romulans into a treaty that they would so desperately need, now that their empire was in ruins.

Except they never did. Oh, there had been some talk of returning to the negotiating treaty, he thought – but always with the one requirement that Picard lead the negotiations for the Federation.

He had quickly quashed that plan, maneuvering Picard into the Admiralty where protocol prevented him from leading the negotiations – or indeed, from even participating in them.

That had taken some work, keeping the man assigned to other committees within the Admiralty, hoping that the Romulans would eventually agree to the talks without their so-called hero – or that time would finally take its toll and that damned old man would finally die.

Or retire, he conceded – though that would have been far less fulfilling than knowing the man could never interfere in his personal political aspirations again.

But the Romulans had held their position, declining to negotiate unless Picard was involved – and preventing Czymszczak from leading the negotiations that would have placed him, irretrievably, in the public eye as the champion of the Federation – and its next President.

Perhaps its last President, he added with a small tight smile.

And now, Czymszczak thought, now we may be able to move Picard out of the spotlight once and for all; now we can make a new hero for the Romulans to admire; now we can switch their attention to someone else – and that someone else will be under my control.

Maybe this will all work out after all, he thought, the gears of his mind quickly turning.

"Get me the details of the rescue. I want to know the name of the pilots, their service histories, everything we've got on their families... and I want it now. And I want a complete record of everything that the Enterprise did – and details on every possible mistake Riker might have committed in the process. I want the Romulans to know just how close Riker came to failing – and how those pilots – not Riker! - saved the crew. And I want a Defiant class vessel prepared for immediate departure. Have every report from our agent forwarded directly to that ship," he added. No delays, Asfad. We need to know everything about that rescue – now."

"Sir?"

"The Romulans are about to return to the negotiating table, Asfad. They just don't know it yet," he said with a cold, cold smile.

"And this time they're going to settle with us – the way we want them to.

"The way _I_ want them to."


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

There were times when Jean-Luc Picard ached to be a father again, to have the love and attention of his children once more, to hold them in his arms, to tell them his stories, to listen to theirs, to share his life, his experiences with those so much younger than he, to share their joy and simple innocence.

And there were times he didn't miss it in the least.

This would have been one of the latter, he thought, looking across the field at the figure of the petite woman, a fidgeting infant nestled in one arm, a toddler in the other, a third child pulling on her leg while a fourth sat at her feet, wailing piteously – and reminded himself that while there were drawbacks to having opted for a solitary life, there were advantages as well.

Even from his position across field, he could hear – or rather sense – her gentle pleadings to the children growing increasingly frustrated, observe her futile attempts to carefully pry the clinging hands free – and commiserate as none of her efforts succeeded; indeed, with each passing moment, the children seemed to grow increasingly fretful – and Andile's remarkable composure started drawing toward its breaking point.

But even as the final strand of her temper began to fray, S'bey stepped in, simultaneously lifting the child seated on the ground and sweeping up the one who grabbed at her ankle – and quickly deposited them in the waiting arms of B-4.

The children quieted instantly, staring at the android for a moment – then the smaller swung his – or hers, Picard admitted, unable to tell the child's gender from this distance – arms around B-4's neck and held tight.

Turning back, S'bey quickly retrieved the other two children – then gestured toward Picard, murmuring something before leading B-4 away down the softly-sloping hill – and leaving Andile to travel down the other side toward him.

"I thought that waking up somewhere safe, not feeling sick or hungry would be a welcome change," she admitted as she reached his side, "but it seems to be the opposite; they're as edgy as I've ever seen them. Except with B-4," she added, nodding her head at the disappearing android.

"And S'bey," Picard added, watching the other man.

Andile nodded – then cast a wary glance at the human. "Why do I think there's something unsaid behind that remark?" she asked cautiously.

He turned away from watching B-4 and S'bey and looked at her dismissively. "You're the telepath," he reminded her. "If there was something behind that remark, wouldn't you already know it?" he added.

She gave him a second caustic glare – then turned away, deigning not to pursue the topic. Instead, she bowed her head at the two men.

"B-4's a natural with children," she said. "Probably comes from being your manservant for the last four years. He's gotten used to dealing with tyrants," she added, then grinned up at him.

Tyrant? he repeated silently, starting to bristle at the word – then recognized the remark for what is was: an attempt to change the topic.

Deigning not to take the bait, he shook his head nonchalantly. "B-4's been a lot of things to me – but manservant would not be one of them. Companion?" he said, searching for a term that would describe their relationship.

"Friend?" she offered.

"No," he murmured after a moment's consideration. "Friendship – true friendship – requires something more in the people involved – something that B-4 just doesn't have. Or rather, something he might have – but doesn't know how to express," he added, watching the distant figure for a moment – then looked at his old friend. "I never know if I'm doing right by him," he admitted. "I don't know if there's something more he needs – but that he can't ask for – or doesn't even know that he needs. I don't know if there's more to him, trapped inside a positronic net that doesn't have the ability to express its thoughts – or if he is really just the person I see everyday, nothing more, nothing less."

"It must be frustrating," she agreed.

"It is - for me," he murmured. "But what is it like for him? I don't know, Dee; I just don't know. And I may never know," he added glumly.

She glanced up at him. "You're just Mr. Optimism today, aren't you?" she asked sarcastically.

Picard managed a small smile. "My apologies. The last few days – and nights - are catching up with me."

Andile gave him another biting look. "I thought that's why you threw me out last night – so you could have your bed to yourself," she said.

"I 'threw you out', as you so inaccurately put it, because you needed to set up the holodeck before the children woke up," he reminded her. "And I had a dinner with Professor Femishar – which lasted far later into the evening than I had hoped – and any chance at a decent night's rest disappeared with it. You want to talk about tyrants? Just try having a civilized discussion with him," he added, recalling the long and difficult evening spent with the academician – an evening that had included persuasion, argument, bribery – and finally outright coercion before the two came to a grudging accord.

"No thanks," she answered, apparently oblivious to his recollection of the previous night's difficulties. "I've read his work – and while it may be correct by the standards of Kvesterian science, I prefer to theorize after gathering evidence, not before," she replied.

Picard nodded his agreement. "That is, of course, my official reason for accompanying them on this dig. I'm there to confirm the dig parameters, and ensure that select pieces that don't support the theory don't disappear," Picard informed her.

"That should be a neat trick. Hasn't the Federation archaeology council heard of replicators? I wouldn't put it past Femishar to 'accidentally' destroy some key piece of evidence when he's putting away the dinner dishes one night," she countered.

"One, Femishar would never put away the dinner dishes," he pointed out with a smile. "That's beneath a man of his stature. Two: yes, the council's heard of replicators," he continued, growing more serious, "and no, they and I agree: we have little doubt that Professor Femishar wouldn't stoop to such tricks to obliterate evidence that would damage his theory," he agreed. "But in order to use a replicator, you have to have one first."

"And they won't?" she replied, astounded. "Femishar's not going to like that! Cooking and cleaning up after himself!" she chortled merrily.

"It's not his decision," Picard answered. "It became standard policy a few years ago, after someone did do just what you suggested – dematerialized key artifacts that would have allowed researchers to determine the level of development of the Requiem of Haroosh, before Cantoph's ascension," he answered.

Her eyes widened in disgust, appalled at the destruction of the archaeological artifacts. "Fuck," she muttered – then smiled at him. "Oh, that's right. You don't do that any more," she teased.

He smiled back, once again choosing not to take the verbal bait. "It seems the researcher had her own ideas about how history should record the Requiem," he answered.

"Couldn't they restore it from the replicator pattern buffer?"

"Yes – but replicated artifacts aren't scientifically valid," he pointed out. "Whatever it showed, the information would be contested – and rightly so. But since then, replicators have been forbidden on Federation-sponsored digs – meaning that not only does equipment and supplies have to be transported in, but so do adequate foodstuffs, disposal and sanitation facilities." He smiled. "It takes archaeology back to what it once was – long hours and hard work out in the field."

"With adequate food, ultra-secure shelters, advanced equipment, computer-aided artifact analysis... Oh, yeah," she scoffed, "that's roughing it, all right."

"Well, we _do_ have to put away our own dinner dishes," he reminded her with a smile.

Andile looked up at him, returned the smile, then gave him a curious look. "So, aside from gloating over the fun you're going to be having, what brings you out here? Searching for your wayward 'companion'?"

"At first," he conceded. "After four years of having B-4 at my side, I was a little... concerned... by his not being there this morning," he said. "But, as Will and Deanna assured me when they agreed to watch him while I was on this dig, this ship is safe for someone like him. They've made it so that there's no place he can go on where he will be in danger."

"Still," she offered gently, "you were worried."

"I was worried," he agreed.

She reached for his hand, took it, then squeezed it gently. "You're a good man, Jean-Luc; a good friend."

He looked back her, his own thoughts about his inadequacies as both obvious in his eyes – but seeing her expression of sympathy and understanding, he quickly masked them.

He wasn't here to make himself feel better, he reminded himself.

"So if you weren't worried about B-4, why are you here?" she asked.

He gave her a troubled look. "I wasn't worried about where he was – the computer told me that, but why he came here is a different issue," he explained. "B-4 had told me he was going to the koi pond – but when I went to the arboretum, he wasn't there," he added, then gave her a troubled look. "The computer said he'd never gone there in the first place," he added. "He lied to me."

Andile studied the man for a long moment – then grinned and shook her head. "You know, Jean-Luc, I've only known B-4 a few hours, but I don't think he's capable of lying."

Picard gave her a puzzled look. "No? Data was capable of lying – and B-4 possesses all of Data's memories and abilities. Just because he had never done it doesn't mean that isn't capable of it."

"True - but I possess all the genetic information of a million years of human and Breen evolution. That doesn't mean I express them all," she pointed out. "I think B-4's like that. He possesses information and abilities – but he doesn't express it outwardly – or he expresses it as he can. Or maybe B-4 can lie – but I don't think he would lie to you," she added softly – then pulled at his hand, moving him across the open field.

"B-4 came here because he possesses Data's memories about me," she explained, "including how Data felt about me."

"Feels," he corrected.

"Felt," she refuted. "My Data died four years ago – and those feelings died with him. But a copy of those feelings was incorporated into B-4's positronic net. He has no understanding of what they mean, but he feels them nonetheless – and they drove him to come to see me.

"At the same time, he knew that you had asked Data – this new Data – not to come see me. I'm sure that set up some sort of conflict within his net – and he needed to resolve it – but without creating a conflict within other aspects of his personality – his loyalty to you. So think, my dear admiral: what exactly did he tell you he was going to do?" she pressed.

Picard thought hard, trying to remember precisely what B-4 had said, versus what he thought the android had said – then gave an embarrassed smile. "He said he wanted to see the fish. He's been spending time in the arboretum, at the koi pond, so I assumed..."

"You assumed what he wanted you to assume," she said softly. "He won't lie to you, Jean-Luc – but the memories Data gave him compel him as strongly as his loyalty to you. So he compromised. He told you what you could accept – then he came here, and told me he wanted to see the fish."

"You make him sound manipulative – almost Machiavellian," Picard objected.

"Not at all. He spoke the truth. He told you that he wanted to see the fish – and he came here to see if we had any. We didn't, but I invited him to stay, and he did," she pointed out. "I think it was pretty clever of him, don't you?" she asked.

Picard looked across the field at where the two men were now seated, studying his companion as though seeing him with new eyes. Which he was, he added, never suspecting that B-4 possessed such a depth of creativity – or of need, he added.

As he watched, two more children joined the men, ambling around them uncertainly, as though they weren't sure what to do with their new-found freedom and safety.

"The children seem a little lost," he murmured.

"That's because they are," she answered. "This is all new to them. They've never been free; they've never been truly safe. I did the best I could..." she added painfully, letting her voice trail off.

For a long time, the two remained silent watching the children awkwardly trying to come to terms with their new environment. After a long time, Picard spoke quietly.

"No, you didn't."

"Pardon?" she asked, turning to look at him, puzzlement in her eyes.

"You didn't do the best you could," he accused her softly.

Stung, she glared at him, fury on her face. "I beg your pardon?!" she snapped.

"I said, you _didn't_ do the best you could," he repeated soberly. "The best you could was to ensure that those children got onto a transport where the captain was reliable, where there was enough food, where you could be sure you would get to your destination safely," he pointed out. "You didn't do that."

"How dare you!" she snarled, dropping his hand.

"How dare I?" he countered. "I dare, because I know the truth. The Dee I knew would have made sure conditions on a transport ship were safe; she would have made sure the captain was honorable – or she would have found a better captain. She wouldn't have put the safety of her children in the hands of a disreputable incompetent," he told her.

"I... I didn't have a choice!" Andile protested.

Picard nodded knowingly – more knowingly than Andile liked. "I agree; you didn't. You did what you could, given the situation – but the Dee I knew four years ago did have other options, which, if she could have used them, would have. Dee, you are one of the most powerful, talented and skilled telepaths I've ever met – and that's saying quite a lot. I've seen what you can do; you've 'pushed' me, Will – half this crew! You 'pushed' an entire conference of delegates to bend to your will, without them having any idea you were doing so – and you did it while you were critically ill. But you didn't search the mind of one lowly Orion captain to determine whether you could trust him – and when you finally realized you couldn't, you didn't 'push' him to let you take over the ship?" He shook his head. "No, the Dee I knew would have moved heaven and Earth to get what she wanted. Which either means you didn't want those children to be safe..."

Her hand flew up to slap him, but before it could reach its target, he caught it, trapped it within his own, stronger hand, and glared at her.

"Either you didn't want those children to be safe," he repeated, staring into her eyes – then released her hand.

"Or you couldn't do a damned thing about it," he finished.

She glared at him enraged, furious. "I..."

"You did nothing," he iterated, "which means that either you're sick, or you're hurt... or you're just so damned tired you can't do it," he finished for her. "I know from Alyssa's report that it's not illness or injury – which leaves exhaustion."

She glared at him rabidly.

"You're exhausted, Dee," he repeated. "You're doing the work of ten people, trying to 'push' thirty children to keep them from enduring the trauma of their entire lives, and it's killing you – but you're too damned stubborn to ask for help."

"S'bey helps me!" she snapped back.

"S'bey is one person – and he's only... what? Thirteen? Fourteen years old?" he replied. "Admirable as he may be, he is not an adult – and he can't give you the help and support you need. You, on the other hand, are old enough to know – and to do – better. If you can. But can't, can you?" he pressed.

"I can," she argued – then let out her breath in a miserable sigh. "Sometimes," she added. "I just can't do it consistently – especially not when I'm tying to keep the children calm," she explained. "I managed to get the Orion to believe that he would be paid when we reached our destination – but after that... I was able to keep a handle on the kids – but not the captain," she admitted, then shook her head, then looked at him again. "I'm out of money, out of resources – and we're still so far from home," she admitted. "Damn it, Jean-Luc, what am I going to do? How am I going to get them home?" she asked, desperation coloring her voice.

He studied her for a long moment, then sighed. "You're going to do what you hate to do," he informed her. "You're going to accept that you're not in control this time – and you're going to accept some help." Before she could protest, he raised a hand, stilling her arguments, unspoken. "Dee, there are those who were – are – willing to help – but you have to let them. For once, you can't do this on your own."

She shook her head. "I can't. No one can know where we're going, where the others are... if anyone knows... if anyone finds out... Damn it, damn it, damn it – I have to get them safe – but I have to keep everyone else safe as well!" she protested softly.

He studied her for a long moment, the conflict between her stubborn resolve fighting with her need to move the children to a place where they could be a safe as possible playing across her face, across her thoughts – then reached for her hand, and led her away from the children.

A moment later, out of eyeshot of the children, he called out.

"Arch."

At his command, the control panel and exit to the ship appeared – and Andile snapped free of his grasp. "Jean-Luc, I won't leave the children here alone..." she began to protest.

"I'm not suggesting you do so," he interrupted – then turned her toward one of the display screens, touched a control then said, "Picard to Communications. Please relay that inbound message to this screen, Security code Picard alpha alpha one."

For a moment, the screen showed nothing but the azure blue background and Federation insignia – then the screen blanked, and a face appeared.

A familiar – oh so familiar – face.

"Patchni?" Andile whispered, shock, stunned amazement covering her face, longing and loneliness shining behind her suddenly moistening eyes.

For a moment, the ex-Senator, retired Ambassador and former Empire starship captain retained every ounce of his military and political bearing – then let the façade fall as relief and joy filled his face. "Baj," he answered. "My little baj."

"Patchni?" she repeated, on hand moving tentatively toward the screen, as if to touch the face of her grandfather – then looked at Picard. "I don't understand."

"There is nothing to understand," Tiron interjected. "You were lost, now you are found – and I am coming for you," he told her.

It took a moment for Andile to recognize that the man who had once been her grandfather was not situated at his usual place – seated in a massive mahung'lut-covered chair, posed behind the desk in his private office, his customary place for receiving and sending communications – but rather seated behind the controls of a ship of some sort.

She gaped at the screen – then shook her head. "Patchni... no! I'm not coming with you. I can't. I won't. I meant what I said back then! I won't give them up! Not for anything or anyone, not even for you!"

Tiron looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head. "So stubborn, my little baj; so stubborn. So stubborn that you do not even hear what others are saying."

"I heard what you said!" she protested. "You told me it was a fool's errand, a waste of time, a waste of energy..."

"I did – and it is and was," he agreed.

Ah! Picard thought. So that was what had torn the two apart; Andile's terrible need to help the abandoned children of Cardassia Prime, to try to atone for the murder of her own daughter – and Tiron's promise to keep the woman safe – both from those who would rather see her dead and from her own self-destructive nature – and the inability of both of them to see the other's point of view.

"It isn't," she was protesting. "I've brought six of them to safety..."

"And almost died in the process," he objected, then nodded toward where Picard stood. "Cardassia?" he whispered, appalled. "What were you thinking, child?"

Andile turned, glaring furiously at Picard.

"You told him?"

He nodded unapologetically. "Yes," he said.

"Bastard!" she hissed. "You had no right..."

"It was not a matter of his right, baj – nor a matter of choice. I gave him no options," Tiron interrupted. "It was the price he had to pay," he added.

"Price?" she asked, puzzled, then looked at Picard. "The price for what?"

"To get your children home," he replied quietly.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"The admiral has told me of your situation – that you will not let your friends assist you for fear you may be betrayed," Tiron said. "I, however, can transport them without that worry."

She stared at the screen, still confused – then shook her head. "But... you can't travel in Federation space..."

Tiron gave a conniving grin of triumph. "The Federation is anxious to move forward with its negotiations with Romulus; granting an old man – who still has the ears of the Emperor – permission to dock at a minor, and tactically meaningless, starbase was an easy concession on their part," he gloated. "I will meet the Enterprise there, and your S'bey will then provide the coordinates for your final destination. No one else need know – except for me and my pilot. You can rest assured I will not betray that confidence – and neither will my pilot," he added. "He has been with our family for more years than you have been alive..." he continued.

"I doubt that," Andile muttered under her breath, earning a quiet chuckle from Picard, then turned her attention back to Tiron, who was still speaking.

"...and is utterly trustworthy," he concluded.

She studied the man for a long time, then shook her head. "Why?" she asked softly. "You weren't willing to help me before; why are you willing to help me now?" she asked him.

Tiron sighed, then shook his head. "Ah, my little baj, my little baj. You are so bright – but so stubborn. You only heard what you want to hear.

"I never said I would not help you," he told her. "I said it was a fool's errand, and that you were wasting your time and risking your life. But I never said I would not help you: you left before I could say anything," he continued sadly.

"You left – and I have spent the last three years searching for you," he went on. "I did not know if you were alive or dead; I did not know if you were sick or hurt, safe – or in the hands of your enemies," he added, his face beginning to show every minute of his many years. "I had sworn to protect you, child, and I would have helped you do what you must – but you ran away – and then I could do nothing – but worry," he whispered.

Her lip began to tremble. "Patchni... I'm sorry. I thought..."

"No," he said," his resolve slamming into place. "No apologies. It is over, it is done – and soon we will be together. And safe," he added firmly.

"I'm not going to stop trying to save them," she insisted.

"I know," he agreed. "I do not agree – but I know you must do this," he said – then managed a smile. "Oh, my baj," he said softly.

"Patchni," she replied – then looked at Picard. "How long until we reach starbase 306?" she asked.

"The Enterprise will rendezvous with Ambassador Tiron in two weeks," he said, carefully choosing his words.

She raised a brow at the man, noting the selection of words – then looked at Tiron, who was grinning at her.

"All right. What are the two of you up to?" she asked.

"Do not blame the admiral," Tiron said before Picard could speak. "This is not his doing. This is the other price of gaining my cooperation."

She glared at the old Romulan. "So why do I think I'm the one who's going to pay it?" she snarled.

"You are," Tiron conceded, grinning. "But, I assure you, it is not an onerous price."

"What is it?" she snapped, growing angry.

"Some people might even consider it... fun," Picard tried, searching for a word.

"What the fuck is it?!" she growled, seething.

"It is... a vacation, baj," Tiron said at last. "You are going to take a vacation."

"Vacation?!"

"Well, not vacation, exactly," Picard amended.

She glowered at him.

"You're going to Samarrasia IV with me," he explained.

"What?" she gasped.

"You're going to join the dig."

She glared at him. "And if I say 'no'?" she seethed.

Picard studied her for a moment, then shook his head. "There's no ultimatum, Dee. Ambassador Tiron will transport your children regardless of your decision. But... you won't say no," he said softly. "Not if you care for those children; not if you want to try to save the rest of them.

"You almost killed them," he reminded her softly. "You were too tired, too exhausted to make good decisions – or to be able to fix them once they were made. But you lucked out... this time. But next time?" He shook his head. "Next time, a passing ship might not be there at the right moment; next time, the captain might sell you all to a slaver. Next time, the captain might just take your money – or believe he's taken your money – and throw you out a hatch.

"You can't take that chance, Dee. If you care for those children – and all the others – if you truly want to try to save them, then you must do this," he told her. "For their sake – and for your own," he added.

She shook her head. "Femishar will never go along with it."

Despite the solemnity of the moment, Picard smiled. "He's already agreed."

She raised a brow at that. "What did you do? Threaten him?"

"Let's just say that I was... persuasive. I am a Starfleet admiral, you know," he added.

"Gods," she groaned. "You blackmailed him – and now he'll probably assign me to latrine duty – or putting away the dinner dishes," she added with a forced smile.

Picard nodded, conceding the probability that Femishar's revenge would be humiliating and petty. "Most likely," he said – then continued. "I've already discussed the issue with Captain Riker. The Enterprise will get the children to the rendezvous point safely; Tiron will meet them there, and S'bey will make sure that he gets the correct coordinates for wherever they're going." Picard assured her.

"And I will have a vessel waiting to take you to them – whenever you are ready," Tiron confirmed.

She glared at him, hating him – hating them both – for pushing her into this.

And hating herself more – because they were right.

"Bastards," she told them both – then sighed heavily, hung her head, muttered something, then stalked away.

"As I love you, baj," Tiron echoed to the disappearing figure – then grinned triumphantly at Picard.

"This isn't going to be relaxing holiday, Tiron," Picard said. "Digs can be physically taxing," he reminded the Romulan. "We're going to come back tired and worn."

"But it is work of a different nature, work that does not required her to dwell on matters or survival," the Romulan replied. "No, let her exhaust herself with labor - and let her refresh her mind with your friendship and not with the troubles of a universe; let her be young once again, without the worries of the world upon her soul," Tiron added solemnly.

"I think she prefers the suffering," Picard countered solemnly.

"Because she does not believe she deserves better," Tiron answered. "Teach her that she does," he added.

Picard sighed at the enormity of task – then nodded. "I'll do what I can," he agreed. "I'll notify you as we're back on the Enterprise, so we can make arrangements for her transport."

"I'll be waiting," Tiron replied. "Take good care of her, my friend," he added, then touched the communication control on his board, and the screen returned to its azure blue blankness.

Picard stared at the blank screen for a moment, then turned and looked out across the field, watching the diminishing figure of his old – very old – friend – then shook his head, a sense of regret and disappointment weighing upon his shoulders.

I know she needs this: I know she needs to rest and recuperate, he told himself – but this was to have been my last dig – indeed, most likely my last vacation. I had hoped...

What? he asked himself. You had hoped... what? To make an archaeological find of the century, to go out in a blaze of glory rather than passing through the rest of your life seated behind a desk, unnoticed and unnoted? And instead you find yourself trying to help an old and dear friend?

And you resent it? he asked himself.

She offered her life to save yours, he reminded himself. She spent six months in hell, enduring surgery upon surgery to rebuild her body, countless days of agonizing therapy to regain her ability to walk and talk, hours of misery and suffering - because she wanted to save your life. She almost died to save you.

And Data did die, he told himself.

All to save you.

And you resent giving up a vacation?

He watched her for a long time – then slowly began to climb the hill.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Captain Will Riker tightened the belt of his bathrobe then sat down on the edge of his bed, reaching down for his slippers, slipping them on – but his eyes were locked on the site of his wife – his very pregnant, very beautiful wife – brushing her long hair.

He loved this part of her evening routine – but then again, he loved every aspect of her routine: watching her change from her work persona to her personal one; making last minute changes to her counseling appointments, tending to the few small plants that occupies their rooms, then finally changing from her work clothes to one of her nightgowns, then settling in behind her vanity and beginning her routine of brushing her long black hair until it shone.

Of late, of course, she hadn't been changing out of her work clothes – her self-imposed semi-retirement hadn't precluded her wearing a duty uniform – but her swelling belly had made the close-fitting garments increasingly uncomfortable; today she had opted for a loose fitting shirt and trousers that allowed ample room for both her and her growing baby while she worked with Data – but he still enjoyed watching her change into the soft peach-colored gown that flowed gracefully over that swelling tummy.

And, he reminded himself, her once meditative hair brushing had turned into a litany of complaints about how the pregnancy was affecting her hair, turning the once lustrous and luxuriant tresses into dry and frizzled straw-like strands – and more than once had ended in tears as she tried in vain to deal with the hormonally-induced mood swings that left her, in turn, either exuberant or exhausted.

Tonight, though, it seemed that all was right in her world, Will thought as he watched the expression on his beautiful wife's face; absent was the hint of worry that had seemed to underlie her expressions for the last few months, replaced by a serene introspection as she absently passed the brush through her long tresses.

Beautiful as she always was, the serene expression on her face made her all the more stunning – and Will found himself stirred by her beauty once again.

He rose from the bed, moving to her side, laying a hand on her shoulder – but for a long moment, she failed to respond, her thoughts still far away from her husband, her bedroom – and their bed.

"Deanna?" he said softly, a touch of concern in his voice. He had heard that some women started to dislike sex as their pregnancies continued – but until this moment, he had never thought that Deanna would be so affected; indeed, her pregnancy had seemed to increase her interest in – and enjoyment of – their frequent sexual adventures in the bedroom.

That, he sighed, momentarily distracted from his worried about a possible decrease in her libido, had been one of the greatest drawbacks to becoming a captain of a starship – and especially the captain of the flagship of the fleet: while he and Deanna had been reasonably discrete in their liaisons while he was first officer, the captain of a starship was held to a higher standard. No more lunchtime rambles on the holodeck; no more 'quickies' in the conference room; no more assignations in Deanna's office; technically, they now had every right to use the captain's ready room as they wished – something neither of them had ever considered during Picard's tenure, their respect for the man and his position outweighing their mutual enjoyment in their sexual escapades – but now Will's image as captain had to be respected – and that meant no overt frolicking throughout the ship.

Their private quarters, of course, were something else – and the fact that they were a married couple allowed them a measure of circumspection from the crew: everyone knew what they did, but everyone did their best to pretend it wasn't happening. Will and Deanna did their part as well: Will had the soundproofing of the room enhanced so that should they get a little boisterous, no one would overhear – and, he admitted with a sigh, they had both toned down the vigor of their love-making – at least while they were on the ship.

Off the ship, on the other hand, Will added silently, remembering their last shore leave...

Except that wouldn't be happening again, he added soberly, realizing that having a youngster in tow would be as much of a damper on their passion as being the captain of a ship – or if not a damper, at least a limiting factor.

"Will?" Deanna asked softly, her hand resting on his.

He looked down at her, a sorrowful look on his face.

"Will, what is it?" she repeated, concerned.

"After the baby comes... does that mean we're limited to the bedroom – at night?" he asked.

Deanna smiled up at her husband. "No," she assured him. "We may have to get a little more flexible in terms of when - but babies sleep a lot," she reminded him, "and youngsters nap as well - and then they go to school... I promise, we'll find time, Imzadi," she swore. "All

parents do - or I wouldn't be here, now, would I?"

Will looked at her perplexedly, then remembered that Deanna had once had an older sister - Kestra - who had died shortly after Deanna had been born - and then gave a shudder as he realized what Deanna's

conception had meant: Lwaxanna Troi having sex.

The mere thought of Lwaxanna naked was enough to quash his growing ardor; the idea of her and Deanna's father actually engaging in

intercourse...

He shuddered again.

Deanna laughed softly. "Humans have very strange attitudes about

their parents and sex," she remarked. "On Betazed, we're much more

open about our sexuality..."

"It's not a matter of being prude, Deanna," he interrupted. "I know people - including my parents - made love. It's just the idea of

_your_ mother..." He shuddered again, shaking his head. "It's enough

to put a man off the idea of sex - for a long time," he informed her.

"Oh? From what Mother tells me, she isn't lacking for partners,"

Deanna countered.

Will held up a hand, stopping her before she could continue.

"Enough," he insisted. "I don't want to hear about your mother's sex

life."

"Well some day, Will, I'm going to be her age," she reminded him. "Is the thought of me, naked, at my mother's age, going to put you off the idea of sex?" she asked, half teasing - and half serious.

Will looked at his wife, her usually glorious breasts now swelling into magnificence as her pregnancy developed, her previously

curvaceous waist now curving in the opposite direction - and all the

more stunning for that growth, he thought as a hungry smile crossed

his face.

"Probably," he said, pulling her into his arms. "In fact, we've been together how long, now?" he asked, nuzzling her neck. "Twenty years? It's probably time for me to start looking for someone new. Someone younger. Someone who can keep me... inspired," he said. "Unless, of course, you're up to that challenge," he added, pulling away from her.

"It's hardly a challenge," she teased softly, raising a finger to each of the thin straps of her negligee, gently pulling them free of

her shoulders, letting them fall down her arms, allowing the gown to

fall to the floor in a puddle of soft peach chiffon.

Will drew in a sharp breath, finding himself as thrilled at the sight of her body as he had been the first time he saw her - then murmured, "You win." He reached for her hand, pulled her to him, then guided them both to the bed.

Later - much later - Will kissed the back of Deanna's neck, ran his hand over her breast, then moved it down to caress her belly and their growing child.

"I can't wait until he's born," he murmured.

"Only four more months," Deanna replied, then added, and it's a she," she insisted. Glancing over her shoulder at her husband, she asked, "Looking forward to being a father?"

"Yes," he agreed, then kissed her neck, adding, "but I can't wait to be able to kiss your lips while we're making love," he explained. "Not that kissing your lovely neck and your back aren't delightful," he murmured, nuzzling her again.

Rolling over - awkwardly - she faced her husband - then glanced down at the growing fetus that kept them separated. "You have to admit,

she's forcing us to get more creative," Deanna replied.

"He," he replied, adding, "And there is that," he concurred, leaning forward so that he could press his lips to hers - then pulled back. "So, are you going to tell me about it?" he asked.

"About what?" she replied.

"About whatever was on your mind when you were brushing your hair," he explained. "You were a million miles away."

She smiled. "No; only a few decks away," she admitted.

"The admiral?" Will guessed.

She gave him a surprised look, then shook her head. "No; I was

thinking about Data. Why? What about the admiral?"

Will shook his head. "Nothing, really; it's just..." His voice

trailed off as he rolled back onto his pillow.

"Just what?" Deanna pressed softly.

Will stared at the ceiling of their quarters for several moments - then gave a sigh, but said nothing.

"Will?"

He thought a moment longer, then spoke. "He's getting old, Deanna. I've always thought of him as..."

"Eternal?"

Despite himself, Will smiled. "Not eternal - but as a constant in my life. Our life," he amended, then turned to her, one hand reaching for their unborn child. "All our lives. Seeing him these last few days... There's a new life joining us, Imzadi - but it's been a reminder of our mortality as well. He's mortal," Will said quietly, painfully, "as mortal as any of us - and that one day... maybe one day soon... he'll be gone," he said.

Deanna nodded understandingly - then pressed, "And?"

"And?" he echoed.

"Will, we both realized that the admiral was growing older the first day he came aboard," she pointed out, remembering the man as he stepped down from the transporter platform - and remembering her shock at seeing the transformation that time had made on the man. Hair turning from silver to white, his body a little more stooped, a little less certain in its movements... It had shaken her, shaken them both, but shocking as it was, she knew that Picard's aging was not at the crux of Will's unhappiness. "What's really troubling you?" she asked softly.

Will hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "He's not happy," he said, then reached for her, pulling her close to him, kissing her softly - then returning one hand to her abdomen, softly caressing it once more. "Here I am, doing work I love, having you in my life, knowing we're going to have a son..."

"Daughter," Deanna corrected.

"Family," he compromised, "in just a few more months - and there he is without any of those things. I know that all these were important to him, Deanna, all things he wanted..."

"Will," she interrupted quietly, "you can't blame yourself for achieving those things when the admiral didn't. He had the same opportunities we all do; he just made different choices."

"I know," he agreed, "but I still wanted it for him."

"I know," she agreed. "And I wanted it for Biji and Data," she said.

"Ah," Will replied, understanding, at last, the reason for her

earlier distraction. "She still won't accept that Data is Data?"

"No."

"More of her legendary penchant for abusing herself?" he asked.

"Denying that he's really Data so there's no way she can be happy?" he

mused.

"It's possible," she agreed, "but I think she really feels he's not the Data she knew. What's hard for Data is that she accepted B-4, and through him accepted Data's affection for her - and accepted it quite readily; accepted it - and him - and to the extent that she's had B-4 helping out with the children all day."

"But she's still refusing to see Data," Will contributed.

She nodded. "Add to that the fact that she has accepted the admiral's invitation to join him on the dig. If there was any more obvious way to avoid contact with Data - and deny him any chance to rekindle the relationship - I can't think of it."

"And Data's not taking it well," he concluded.

"On the contrary," she countered. "Data's taking it exceptionally well - at least on the outside. We spent the day getting her equipped for the dig, and Data went out of his way to make sure that she had everything that she needed - and everything that she liked." She smiled to herself as one memory passed through her mind. "He even made sure her undershirts were trimmed with lace," she said.

"Undershirts?" Will echoed.

"Undershirts," Deanna repeated, then gave him a quizzical look. "You know, the garment you wear under a shirt?" she explained. "Biji always wore them when she was on the Enterprise before," she added. "Believe me, I know; Beverly and I had to fight her to get her to try wearing a bra - and she only agreed to it because Data... Well," she demurred, blushing slightly at that memory.

Will smiled in understanding. "I think I understand," he replied, then considered for a moment. "Deanna, did it ever occur to you that Data might have been a little too helpful - that he might have had his own reasons for helping you as he did?"

She shook her head. "Such as?"

He hesitated, hating to point out what Deanna might once have seen as obvious - then plunged ahead. "Yes, he pointed out the Beej liked lace on her undershirts - but he didn't point out that they aren't very attractive - lace notwithstanding."

"Yes, but..."

"More to the point, Deanna, he didn't point out the obvious," he

continued.

"Which is...?"

"Beej might like undershirts - but she _needs_ a bra," he said.

"What?" Deanna said.

"It's been four years, Deanna, and despite things having been tough for her, Beej has definitely recovered," he pointed out.

"I don't understand, Will," she replied, confused.

Her husband stared at her, surprised that she hadn't noted what he had thought to be blatantly apparent - and delightful, he admitted.

"Deanna, Beej has got a pair on her," he said bluntly.

Deanna Troi gaped at her husband, shocked into silence, then

exploded, "Will Riker..."

"Well she does," he replied. "And don't give me that look!" he continued. "I wasn't looking at her - not that way. My God, Deanna, it's Beej! She's not exactly what I'd call gorgeous!" he exclaimed,

silently adding, she's barely even tolerable, when it came to looks,

he thought. "But I didn't have to go looking to see the obvious," he

continued. "She's... built," he said at last.

Deanna opened her mouth to protest - then stopped, checking the

automatic reflex, and thinking - hard - about what Will had said.

Andile must have changed in the last four years; after all, haven't we changed? And I've seen the emotional and mental changes for

herself - but the physical changes?

Certainly Biji's face had changed - though not much, she added,

realizing the fact with a touch of surprise, and not as much as it

should have changed.

The surgeons at Starfleet had made only a half-hearted attempt to repair her face after the brutal assault on Cardassia; they had

rebuilt her face and skull using a tritanium lattice that had given a

basic human shape to that part of her ruined body - but not one of

them had given serious consideration to the fact that she might one

day return to a life as a fully functioning engineer.

By the time she joined the Enterprise as an engineer two years later, she had grown used to the awkward angles and harsh planes of her face - and had grown too ill for her body to slowly readjust that face into something that was softer, more human.

But Beverly's work to repair her body, to rebuild the organs and

tissues that had been dying, to give her back the life that had almost

been taken away by tragedy and cowardice and sacrifice, should have

granted her a respite from the pain of looking as she did. Human bones

remodel, she knew from Beverly's explanation; the cells lay down fresh

bone and eroded away the old, slowly smoothing the bumps of injuries -

and softening the hard lines that the tritanium lattice had given

Biji. Yet the last four years hadn't seemed to change those lines, she

thought; when she had first seen Andile, just days ago, her face had

softened only slightly, the planes just fading as her body's cells

reworked the bones to conform with the way she moved her face.

She had just assumed the rest of her body had made those same,

minimal, changes as well.

And, Deanna admitted, she hadn't really paid attention to what

Andile's body looked like, or what changes may have occurred in those

passing years. It wasn't in her nature to do so unless she thought it

might affect how a patient thought of him or herself - and Biji wasn't

her patient any longer.

Noticing women - even a woman whose face was far from beautiful - was, however, in Will's nature.

"And she's got a great backside," he added enthusiastically. "Talk about gaining weight in all the right places," he said with a grin. "If what she looks like now is anything like she did back in her

Academy days, no wonder the admiral was hot for her - and no wonder

Data's jealous about the two of them going planetside for a month."

"What?!" Deanna cried indignantly, truly shocked by her husband's comment. "Will, I'm sure that the admiral..."

"Didn't invite Biji on this trip for any reason other than what he said," Will concluded for his wife, growing serious. "Whatever he felt for her back then was, well, a long, _long_ time ago. And he's changed - they've both changed. He invited her for all the right reasons - because she's exhausted, she needs a holiday - and because he would enjoy the opportunity to renew an old friendship. That doesn't mean that Data is going to see it that way, at least not consciously.

Intellectually, he knows they are nothing more than good friends..."

"But emotionally, he identifies the sexual potential in that

friendship - and acted to sabotage that potential in their

relationship before it even happens," Deanna concluded, understanding

his point. "Lace on her undershirt, indeed," she seethed at the

android's machinations.

Will patted his wife's arm. "Don't be too hard on him, Deanna. In fact, you should be happy," he added. "The Data we knew didn't have

enough sense of self to get jealous; this Data does - even if that

sense of self includes some jealousy - and even if that jealousy is

without cause," he added, shaking his head at the idea of his former

commander and his former shipmate becoming emotionally involved. And

as for them being physically involved...

He shuddered once more.

"Will?"

He managed a grin. "It's that parents and sex thing again. Thinking about your mother was bad enough - but the admiral and Beej..." He shuddered once more.

"I wouldn't worry about it, Will," Deanna counseled. "And I'm going to tell Data the same thing - carefully. Let Biji have this time to recuperate from what's happened in the last four years, to get away

from the stress of trying to move the Chiemma home, and spend some

time with an old," she emphasize the adjective slightly, "friend. And

when she gets back, she may be able to look at her relationship with

Data from a different perspective," she said.

"And if she can't?" he pressed.

"Will, we have six weeks between when they leave and when we return for them - and I intend to spend that time helping Data come to terms with this new life of his and his new perspective," she said.

"And what do you do if Data realizes he doesn't need to live for Beej - and she realizes she can't live without him?" he posed.

She glared at him. "Will Riker, you are impossible!"

"And you love me for it," he replied.

She let her glare last a moment longer - then relented, eased forward and kissed him. "And I love you for it," she agreed - then gave a soft and very surprised gasp. "Oh!" she cried, then glanced at her abdomen.

"What? What is it?" he asked worriedly.

"The baby," she replied still staring at herself - then looked up at her husband. "I think I just felt her kick me!" She grabbed his hand, placed it on her belly - then looked up at him.

Uncertain, Will left his hand in place a moment longer - then broke into a broad grin as he sensed a faint movement beneath his hand. "My son," he whispered, awed.

"Your daughter," she corrected.

He grinned, then lowered his head beneath the covers until his face rested near his hand. "Whoever you are, we love you," he said softly, planted a gentle kiss on Deanna's belly.

_Imzadi_, she thought tenderly as he caressed their unborn child, a wave of overwhelming love for her husband filling her as he caressed their unborn child - and a wave of sorrow. I understand now, she thought to herself; I understand now how Will feels - how he would have wanted Jean-Luc - his friend, his mentor - in all ways but fact, his father - to have had the opportunity to feel this way about a family he never had - and never will have.

Sensing her grief, Will eased his way back to their pillows, studying the mingled of joy and sorrow on Deanna's face, knowing it echoed those on his own visage - and knew there was nothing they could do to ease their friend's pain.

Still, he drew his wife into his arms, and murmured, "He once called us his family, Imzadi, and he was right. We were, are, and always will be family - and while he may not have had a child of his own, Imzadi, but he will have a grandchild," he said.

She looked tearily back at him, nodded, then lay her head on his

chest. A grandchild, she thought; it was a lovely thought - but was it

enough? she wondered.

"It will have to be," Will told her softly, then tightened his arm around her. "Now go to sleep; we'll reaching Samarrassia in just a few hours, and we'll be transporting Femishar and his group as soon as

daylight reaches the campsite - and knowing the professor as we do,

he's not going to make that transport an easy one," he reminded her.

Deanna nodded, then closed her eyes, listening to the soft thrum of

her husband's heart.

But sleep was slow in coming; for a long time, to the lovers lay in one another's arms, staring into the dark, thinking of things that

were not, and would never be.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Jean-Luc Picard took a final look around the room – then closed his personal carryall with a decisive snap.

It had been four years since he had last left this room – but this time, it was nothing more than a room; this time, there was not a life of memories, triumphs and tragedies, joys and sorrows that needed to be packed and shipped away.

This time, it was just a room, and an empty one at that. There was nothing left here that he needed to pack, he reminded himself; he had emptied the drawers of clothes and sent them back to the replicator from whence they had come, disposed of his breakfast dishes - even stripped the bed of its linens and sent them through the replicator, leaving the room bare, showing no trace that he – or anyone – had been here.

Habit, he thought; four years of working in the Admiralty had accustomed him to traveling lightly, utilizing the replicators on the various starships and host planets to provide for his basic needs of clothing and personal care – and subsequently reducing all the 'borrowed' items back to their constituent atoms – carrying with him only those things that a replicator could not produce.

Not that there were many 'things' a replicator couldn't produce – but sometimes there was more to an inanimate item than its mere physical existence. He smiled as the thought crossed his mind, hefting the carryall, lifting the strap to his shoulder, feeling the satisfying weight of his own archaeological tools in the bag.

The tools might not be state of the art, he admitted, having found himself more than a little impressed with the variety and excellence of the equipment that Professor Femishar had brought with him – but these tools were his, worn to the shape of his hands by years of use, polished to a fine sheen by decades of sweat and grit – and he would no more consider going on a dig without them than he would consider going on the bridge naked.

He managed a smile at that thought, ruefully remembering his first few months as a ship's captain and the number of times that very nightmare had wakened him from a troubled sleep; he had been so concerned with his image before his new crew, with his need to always appear ready and able to shepherd his ship through any and every situation, regardless of hour of the day or night that he had found himself sleeping in his duty uniform, lest anyone catch him unprepared – and found those dreams tainted by the fear of the exact opposite – of being called to the bridge, hurrying to his duty post – only to find himself stark naked when he arrived.

After a few months, the need to impress his crew had eased as he become more comfortable with his post – and with himself – and the nightmares had faded – though he still took pains, even now, not to appear at any assignment in anything less than regulation uniform.

Which is probably why I feel so damned uncomfortable, he thought to himself; I'm out of uniform. He glanced down at himself, used to the form fitting black trousers and grey tunic of his usual uniform – and finding instead a pair of legs clad in khaki shorts, thick white socks and heavy boots, and a torso covered by a tan, utilitarian work shirt.

Of course, it was a uniform – of a sort; this was what he had worn on a half a dozen digs in the past, and what he would be wearing for the next six weeks – then grinned. Femishar had objected – strenuously – to his attire, trying to demand instead that the Starfleet admiral follow the clothing guidelines of the Kvesterians.

There had been no logical or sensible reason for the demand, of course; it had simply been another of Femishar's cultural imperatives, another attempt to demonstrate his political and societal position by trying to browbeat Picard into submission.

In theory, Picard could have dismissed the demand without comment – but to do so would have damaged Professor Femishar's position in front of his team; instead the two had debated the point for hours, until Femishar grandly conceded the issue, loudly pointing out the frailties of the human body, and their need for such inappropriate attire at the dig site.

Picard had sighed tiredly at the declaration, silently considering asking Worf to amend Femishar's own manifest to include only clothing that matched his own – then dismissed the idea. He had won this battle, he knew; to rub Femishar's face in it would only be to damage their working relationship further. It was going to be hard enough working for the man even for the brief time they were scheduled to do so; there was no reason to make the situation intolerable.

Still, he had reminded Worf to double check his personal manifest before he transported the containers to the planet's surface early this morning; it wasn't beyond Femishar to alter the contents of a fellow explorer's gear – and Picard would not have been entirely surprised to have found his clothing – and his tools – and perhaps even his food stuffs - changed to meet Femishar's personal preferences.

Not that _that_ would have been so dreadful, Picard thought; the numerous dinners he had had with Femishar – and on Kvesteria itself – had shown the cuisine to be excellent – even if the flavors had been unfamiliar on the tongue. So when the professor of archaeology had declared that only Kvesterian food would be tolerated at the main dig site, Picard had protested only enough to satisfy form, then conceded the point.

Nonetheless, there was a limit to how many weeks of exotic fare he was prepared to face; for the balance of his time on Samarrassia IV, the cuisine would be far more prosaic: ration bars for the trek itself, basic self-heating meals transported in advance to the second site – along with all the other gear they would need when they arrived.

Well, almost all the gear, he amended, mentally reviewing the route that he had mapped out for the two humans to take, silently double checking the list of essentials they would have to carry.

Double check the tent; make sure Worf had it replaced with one large enough for two people, he reminded himself as he left the room, his thoughts fading from those of nostalgia about his former residence and days past, focusing on the details of the trip ahead; don't forget the second harness... Are there enough padds to record the data at both sites...

Lost in silent contemplation of the final details, he automatically made his way to the transporter room, stepped into the room – and stopped as a wall of sound and action assaulted him.

Worf and Femishar were discussing – loudly – some issue while Andile, Alyssa, and S'bey stood in one corner of the room, urgently talking over another matter – the children, he decided – B-4 standing silently behind her, while Geordi and Data looked some readout at the transporter control.

Ah, Data, he sighed to himself, knowing there was no reason for the android to be in the room: he was no longer in Starfleet, no longer the technical expert in transporter systems that he had been before his death – though with his positronic net he could have easily learned every change and improvement to the transporter systems since his reawakening, Picard conceded - but nothing in this prosaic transport would require any level of that expertise, he knew equally well.

No, the android had only one reason for being here this morning – to see Andile off.

He still loves her, Picard thought; whether the being who stood at the console was, indeed, the Data they once knew, or whether he was but a recreation of that person, there was no question in Picard's mind that he – whoever, whatever he was - loved Andile.

But looking at her, seeing her look at everyone around her – except the man who loved her, blatantly ignoring his attention, Picard knew her heart had moved on.

Or, more likely, he added, ceased to move at all. Too many hurts, too many years of loneliness and grief... He shook his head, knowing there were limits to the number of abuses any heart could take.

Beverly had reached hers, he knew... and I have reached mine.

I'm sorry, he told her silently; I should have done more, sooner – but I always put it off, thinking there would be a time, a place for us... You were the only one I ever truly loved – the grand passion of my life, my soul mate, the one person who always made my heart race, made my soul sing ... and I frittered it away.

And now... Now, I don't want to be bothered with love or passion; anything, anyone else would be something less. It wouldn't be fair to them... or to me.

Understanding, commiserating fully with the diminutive woman who was arguing on the other side of the room, he started to move toward her – but a voice reached out to stop him.

"Admiral Picard, this is completely unacceptable!"

Turning to address the speaker, Picard saw the small man hurrying away from where he had been confronting Worf – probably harassing him over the same issue he was about to spout to Picard – and racing toward him, his face suffused with frustration and anger. Behind him, his troupe stood silently, though whether their silence was meant in support of their leader or in embarrassment of his actions, Picard didn't know.

For a moment, Picard was tempted to chuckle at the troupe: dressed in utilitarian shorts with multiple pockets, close cut sleeveless shirts covered by thin, long-sleeved overshirts, heavy socks and work boots, they were dressed almost exactly as he was. So much for Femishar's protestations about the inappropriateness of his attire, he mused, wondering if this had been their intended apparel all along – or if Femishar had opted to follow his lead after their debate.

It was, however, a question that would remain unanswered; Picard had no intention of opening that sore subject again – but even so, he had to wonder as he looked at the students behind Femishar.

Whatever the cause, the younger Kvesterians were clearly uncomfortable at something – though whether it was Femishar's behavior or the tense atmosphere in the room, he didn't know. Whichever it was, however, their discomfiture was not an auspicious sign for the beginning of what was unquestionably going to be a turbulent and tempestuous dig.

At least we only have to deal with him for a week, Picard thought, glancing at Andile – but seeing her equally unpleasant expression, added, but it would be a very, very long week.

Turning to the academician, he replied, as evenly as he could, "What is unacceptable, Professor?"

"This!" Femishar hissed angrily, his hands waiving at the chaos that filled the small room. "All of this! This chaos! This disorganization! Can't Starfleet handle a simple expedition?"

"Professor, this _expedition_ is anything but simple," he countered, trying not to sound too patronizing. "Starfleet and the Federation Archaeological Council want this dig to go as smoothly as possible – not just because of the potential impact of the findings, but also as prelude to future collaborations between our peoples," he added graciously.

Collaborations in which, God willing, I will not be a part, he added silently.

"With so many last minute changes, however, I'm sure that Cmdr. Worf and his people are simply doing what must be done to ensure that nothing is left behind," he continued smoothly.

"Last minute changes which were of your doing!" Femishar sneered. "Insisting on bringing a guest – an untrained guest! – on _my_ dig..."

From the corner of his eye, Picard could see Andile's eyes rise to look at the speaker – and even from across the room, he could see the anger in them.

_Dee_, he began silently – but as quickly as she had raised her eyes, she lowered them again, her attention firmly focused on Alyssa Ogawa.

"Professor," Picard interrupted, "as I previously informed you, the commander is a fully qualified archaeologist – and you had already agreed to my request to being a guest – one who was _not_ a qualified archaeologist at that," he reminded the man sternly.

"I did not agree," Femishar countered. "That was a decision forced upon me by Starfleet..."

"On the contrary," a new voice interrupted. "Starfleet did not force you to accept either Admiral Picard or his guest – either of them. We were pleased to be able to render some assistance to you in transporting your group and supplies to the dig site – and, if I remember correctly, you graciously indicated that you would be more than happy to return that favor by allowing the admiral and a guest to accompany you."

Amused by the smooth rebuttal to Femishar's protests, Picard turned to face his former first officer and his wife – and greeted them both with a smile.

"Captain," he said in quiet greeting. "Counselor," he added.

"Good morning, Admiral," Deanna said smiling brightly at him in return.

"Good morning, Admiral," Will echoed – then turned to Femishar once more. "Professor," he added, bowing his head slightly to the man. "If I might have a word with you, sir?" he said – the led the smaller man toward a corner of the room, and began to speak in a low voice.

Picard watched for a moment, saw open his mouth to begin an objection – then slowly closed it as Will continued to speak.

Whatever the man was saying, it was having an effect, Picard thought, wondering whether Will was cajoling, bribing, or outright threatening the man – in order to get the man to behave himself.

Problem some of each, Picard decided after a moment; a good captain finds his own path to success – hopefully without stepping on too many toes in the process.

Whatever the technique, it must have worked, for a moment later Femishar left Will's side, strode to his group, then looked to Worf. "If your transporters are ready, we would like to beam down now," he said, then gestured his group to the platform without waiting for Worf's permission – then glared at Picard.

"You and your... guest... will, of course, transport separately from us," he informed the human. "We do not approve of transporting simultaneously with people of other races; the idea of intermixing of our essences with that of yours is quite repellent to us," he informed the admiral, then snapped imperiously at Worf, "We are ready."

Despite the order, Worf looked to Will before moving – but the captain had apparently had as much of the Kvesterian leader as Femishar had had of the humans around him. He nodded his consent then watched as the team disappeared.

"We're rid of him at last," Will murmured, relieved.

"Indeed," Picard replied. "I was preparing myself for another one of his diatribes about the deficiencies of Starfleet – and his probable insistence on delaying the beam down while we debated whether my guest would be permitted to join us," he said – then looked at Will. "I'm surprised he didn't," he added. "What did you say to him?"

"Only that we've been ordered to rendezvous with a colony freighter, and that he had the option of departing the ship now – with you and Beej – or debating the issue over the next four weeks as we assist in the colonization of a new planet - and eighteen hundred new colonists," he added with a grin.

Picard raised a brow. "Oh? And when did you get _those_ orders?"

"Last week," Will replied. "It was in your briefing when you came on board, sir," he reminded the older man innocently.

"Those orders were to meet with the freighter captain to discuss the logistics for the colonization," Picard countered knowingly. "The transfer of the colonists themselves won't occur for at least eighteen months."

Will grinned. "I didn't say anything to the contrary," he countered. "However, if the Professor misunderstood me..."

Picard smiled. "I doubt he did, Will; he's obnoxious – but he's not stupid. Nonetheless, it gave him a gracious way out, even if only in his own mind," he said.

"Obnoxious – and offensive," Deanna offered. "I'd rather take a week in a Denobian rainforest rather than put up with that for the next six weeks," she said to Picard. "Are you sure we can't talk you into staying aboard instead?" she added. "You'd be more than welcome."

The man shook his head, knowing as well as Deanna that six weeks onboard a starship – a starship in which he was a guest rather than a captain – would be a sorry holiday indeed.

"Thank you, but no. I've been looking forward to this for some time. And it's only a week with the Kvesterians," Picard reminded her. "Then we're off to the second site."

"Which entails a hundred kilometer trek through a jungle, if I remember correctly," she replied. "You do know how to pick fun holidays, sir," she said.

"And to think we went to Pacifica," Will added, remembering their last holiday.

Geordi chuckled, interrupting the three, and Picard turned to look at him. "We've got the readout of your supplies and the drop points, Admiral. Data and I optimized the drop locations so you won't have to carry all your gear the entire way, but it's going to change your route a bit," he added, then stepped back so Picard could review the new itinerary.

"Will, if you'll excuse me," Deanna said to her husband then moved toward Andile, Alyssa, S'bey and B-4, surreptitiously studying her friend and former patient – and deciding her husband was delusional.

Or at least overly enthusiastic, she amended. While Andile had unquestioningly gained some weight since her final days aboard the Enterprise four years before, it didn't appear to be all that much, and while some had gone to her hips and bust, it certainly wasn't enough that she would have deemed the woman 'built', as Will had insisted.

Pleasant, yes; softly rounded, no question – but 'built'?

Then again, the loose fitting shirt and baggy work shorts did little to accentuate what figure she might have had beneath it – and nothing in her drab-colored clothing, shapeless figure or sullen demeanor suggested that this journey was anything more than a forced holiday – and a working holiday at that. Even her jet black hair, usually luxurious in its thick, silken tresses, looked tired and careless as strands escaped the elastic that tried to secure them together.

At least her appearance is going to give Data no reason for jealousy, she thought, relieved; that's one less problem for the two of us to work through in the next few weeks.

"Everything all right here?" she asked the two women as she drew closer.

"Aside from being forced to leave my children with strangers?" Andile replied angrily.

"Beej, we're not strangers," Alyssa protested.

"You are to them!" she answered.

"Kuze'ma,' S'bey chuffed.

"All right, _you're_ not a stranger to them," Andile conceded to the young man.

"What is a stranger?" B-4 asked flatly.

Andile looked at him. There was no trace of curiosity in his voice – but the question had come from some place within him, she knew. Inquisitiveness, she thought, but without the emotional context. Is that how Data had once been, she wondered: driven to know, needing to learn the whys and the wherefores, but without understanding that need for so long.

And then learning the emotion, she added, discovering the joys of learning, of seeking out new knowledge, new information – the thrill of discovering in books, in life, in love, in their bed...

She glanced at the replica of her former lover – and felt a shiver of something unexpected – something she had thought she had long ago stopped feeling - run through her as she met his eyes.

Hastily she turned away, and heard Alyssa say, "A stranger is someone unfamiliar to another person or people; in this case, someone unfamiliar to the children," Alyssa answered.

The android considered. "I am not unfamiliar to the children," he said, his voice neutral, free of any touch of hurt at Andile's comment. "They know my name. I know their names," he continued innocently. "There is Plat'ra, Machile, Armat..."

Despite herself, Andile smiled then touched the man's arm. "You are correct, B-4; you are not a stranger to them."

He gave her a confused look, not understanding the apology – or for that matter, not understanding why she was correcting herself. "But you said we are strangers..."

She squeezed his arm. "I was wrong," she said.

"Wrong?"

She smiled gently, understanding; his was a world of absolutes, of no corrections, because there were no errors. He spoke from his basis of facts, not understanding supposition or guesses, not understanding mistakes or errors.

So simple, she thought; so innocent. Would that I could be that way.

She shook her head. "What I said, B-4, I said because I was angry, and I wanted to hurt everyone," she explained. "I was being mean to all of you."

He considered that as well, not understanding her meaning – but understanding the cause. "You are not being mean," he said. "You do not want to leave them."

"No," she agreed. "But I have to," she told him, her eyes lighting with resentment.

"But you do not want to," he countered, bewildered.

"I know. But sometimes... sometimes, B-4, we have to do what is best for us – or for others. I need to go away for a little time because it is what is best for them. I... They need me to be better, to be stronger for them," she explained.

He considered this for a time, not fully understanding the rationale – but understanding what he knew.

And what he knew was that he loved her. He did not understand that either, but he knew it – as he knew that he must help her in every way he could. "Then I will take care of them for you," B-4 replied at last. "I am not a stranger," he added.

"No, you are not," she agreed. "Thank you," she added softly.

"We need to be going, Dee," Picard interrupted quietly.

Startled, not having seen or heard the man approach, Andile turned to him – then turned to Alyssa one last time. "You'll make sure they're taken care of? And S'bey?" she asked, looking to the young man. "You'll watch over the girls? Make sure they don't have their babies before I get back?" she added desperately.

He smiled, knowing as well as she that, once the time came, there was nothing he could do to stop the births.

"Huji, eh comayo yey," he answered.

She hugged him to her, saying, "I'll try," then looked to B-4. "Take care of them," she said softly. "Take care of my children."

"I will watch the children," he agreed – then looked at Data, who had come to his brother's side, amending, "We will watch the children."

Andile stared at the man for a long moment – then reached out, hugged the man tightly.

Then, to Picard's surprise, she turned and repeated the gesture with Data.

Or almost repeated it, Picard thought, noting the added hint of desperation and need in her contact with the reincarnation of her former lover.

"I don't know who you are," she whispered to him, "but the man I knew, the man I loved... I trusted him. I'm trusting you to take care of my children," she said.

"I will guard them with my life... Ginger," he answered softly.

He wrapped his arms around her, but the hug was gentle and soft, showing none of the urgency and need that filled his heart.

And then she broke from him, broke from them all, grabbed her own carryall and, disdaining Picard's proffered hand, stepped onto the platform.

"Come on," she told him sharply. "If we're going to do this, let's do it - before I change my mind."

He followed, stepping onto the platform slowly, his former enthusiasm colored by Femishar's antics – and by Andile's resentment – then nodded to Will.

"Six weeks," he reminded the man, almost warningly, as though cautioning the man not to be a minute longer.

"Six weeks," Riker agreed, then looked to Worf. "Beam them down," he ordered, then glanced back his friends, neither looking especially as though they were enjoying themselves.

"Have fun!" he added, a glint of mischievous humor in his eyes.

Before either could reply, Worf ran his hands over the control panel, and the dematerialization sequence began.

A moment later, and the two were gone.

Will watched the empty platform for a moment – then turned to the others. "I'm glad that's over," he admitted. "Now all we have to do is get Beej's children to the rendezvous."

"And I need to get them well and healthy before we get there," Alyssa said – but rather than leave the room, she turned to Deanna. "And speaking of well and healthy, I'd like you to stop by Sickbay when you have a moment."

Instantly worried, Will hurried to his wife's side. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

Alyssa raised a hand to still the worried man – and to quiet Deanna's rising concern.

"Not that I know of," she said quietly. "But when you were allowing me to examine you the other day – so that Biji's girls wouldn't be scared of the equipment – I noted that the lining of your uterus is being to thin slightly – which is typical of human-Betazoid pregnancies at this stage," she added hastily at Will's worried expression, "and I want to establish a baseline reading. It'll help me to determine when we're getting close to delivery," she explained.

Relieved, the two parents let out a sigh then turned to each other. "I'll be on the bridge. Let me know if you need anything," he informed her.

"Just you," she answered softly, raised herself up, and placed a kiss on his cheek.

He answered the kiss with a gentle – but awkward – hug, then released her, stepped toward the doors, and left the room.

A moment later, Alyssa, Deanna, S'bey, Data and B-4 followed him out.

As the last one passed through the door, Worf let out a sigh of relief.

Geordi looked at him curiously. "Something wrong, Worf?" he asked.

"_She_ is dangerous," he growled.

"Who? Deanna?" Geordi asked incredulously.

"No. The commander," Worf countered.

"Biji?" Geordi clarified.

The Klingon nodded. "_She_ is trouble."

Geordi chuckled. "Yeah, that's Beej for you," he agreed.

Worf stared at the man. "It is not a matter for joking, Commander. She is a suspected traitor..."

"You know as well as I do that she was framed," Geordi countered instantly. "Biji had nothing to do with what happened on the ship four years ago!"

"Perhaps not – but where she goes, there is always trouble," he insisted. "I am relieved that she is off the ship... but I would rather that she not be with the Admiral. I worry that he will come to harm with her."

Geordi gave a snort of dismissal. "You worry too much. About the worst that can happen to them is a sprained ankle or a cut finger. Worf, they're going to be on a deserted planet, digging up old pottery, with no one else except a bunch of academics. There's nothing that can go wrong."

Worf nodded, knowing the man spoke the truth – but still a faint worry flickered at the back of his mind.

"Nothing can go wrong," he agreed, "and yet..."

"Worf?" Geordi coaxed. "What is it?"

The Klingon looked to his friend and shook his head, declining to answer, knowing there were no words that could explain what he felt: that disaster loomed ahead for them all.

Disaster... and death.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

"If you don't get in line now, you're not going to get any food," Picard informed his fellow traveler, looking down at her as she sat on the low bench that stood before their shelter, the fading sun darkening the shadows that played upon her formerly light-coloured, but now dirt covered, shirt. "Kvesterian protocol is that everyone takes one serving, no more – and if you don't get your share, you go without."

"I'm not hungry," she grumbled back.

"Yes, you are," he replied, extending his hand to her. "Not only can I _feel_ your stomach growling, I can hear it," he said.

"That's _your_ stomach you're hearing," she countered.

"No doubt," he agreed with a sigh.

Jean-Luc Picard had never been a man to focus his schedule around mealtimes; indeed, he was often so enrapt in his work that he forgot to eat for days on end, subsisting on little more than his beloved Earl Grey tea, bothering to eat only when Beverly or Will harassed him into doing so – but he was also a man whose work was usually focused around a desk or the center chair of a starship, not around the intense physical labor of an archaeologic dig.

Today, however...

Today had been anything but a typical day for a Starfleet admiral, he reminded himself – or for a Starfleet archaeologist, for that matter – and he was ravenous.

As she must be, he knew; ravenous – and furious.

And unfortunately, her rage was winning out over her hunger.

And mine, he added.

For once, though, he thought her anger justified.

In Picard's experience, it had always been the responsibility for a dig leader to make all the arrangements for a set-up team to arrive at the dig site in advance and set up the living quarters, the work areas, kitchen and dining areas so that the dig teams, which were usually working under very limited time constraints, could beam down and begin their work immediately.

Professor Femishar, however, hadn't bothered with those details; either Kvesterian protocol varied greatly from the norm in that aspect - or the Kvesterian academician had simply assumed that Starfleet would have those arrangements for his dig – and was livid when he realized that the work hadn't been done. Even as the transporter beam faded away, the archaeologist was on Picard, berating him angrily, ignoring the man's responses, and demanding that the Enterprise be recalled so that the work could be performed by Will Riker's crew.

Picard had refused, of course, informing Femishar that as dig leader, he was the one who needed to make such a request of Starfleet – then adding that Femishar would also need to request additional living quarters and provisions for the group, as they would be staying with them until the return of the Enterprise six weeks hence.

Femishar had railed, raged and ranted for the better part of an hour – until Andile brushed past him, and stepped up to Picard. "Where's my gear, Jean-Luc? I want to unpack," she said.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Femishar snapped. "Until the living quarters have been erected, there is no point in unpacking your belongings! Without the shelter, they will become damp and fouled," he insisted. "Not that you humans would care about such things," he added, wrinkling his nose in disdain.

Picard forced back a smile as Andile assaulted him with an acidic glare – one that he knew all too well. "My living quarters _are_ erected," she countered acerbically. "While you have been wasting the limited daylight left to us, I put my shelter up. Now I'm going to unpack, and get organized," she informed him, then looked back at Picard. "Gear?"

He started to gesture, but Femishar pushed his hand down. "Where?! Where did you put up the shelter? Picard," he raged, turning to the other human, "If she has damaged the dig site..."

"I didn't go anywhere near the site, Professor – providing, of course, that the lay out of the area that you provided was accurate," she added sharply.

"My maps..."

"Your maps, Professor," she interrupted sharply, "are wrong. You've got that hill," she pointed to a low mound that began several yards away, "as being over here – and the main stream you show running by the east perimeter of the dig is one a hundred yards north of your markings," she pointed out.

"The topography changes during last year's rainy season," he argued.

Not that much, she thought to herself, or you wouldn't have any artifacts left after ten years – let alone ten thousand!

"In any case," she continued, not bothering to voice her thoughts aloud, "I put our shelter in the clearing west of the site; there's nothing on your map to indicate we're anywhere near your dig," she answered.

"Nonetheless, you acted without notifying me and without my approval!" he railed. "Such behavior will not be tolerated. Now, we must reassess the survey site to confirm that it hasn't been contaminated. While we do so, you – and you," he added, stabbing a finger at Picard, "will complete the building of our living structures... after I determine the correct location for them to be erected," he added.

She opened her mouth to retort at the implied 'punishment', but Picard silenced her with a gentle touch. "We'll proceed with the construction, Professor," he agreed easily.

_Jean-Luc!_ Andile thought angrily.

_Patience, Dee,_ he countered wordlessly.

Femishar strode off, consulting the padd he held, growling, and grumbling.

"All right, explain," she said as the Kvesterian walked away. "You just stuck us with putting up four shelters – their shelters! What the hell were you thinking?!"

"I was thinking that four pre-fabricated shelters are considerably easier to construct than all the work that's going to be needed to put up the eating area and the main shelter," he pointed out. "We just have to put up the exterior walls and roofs, then haul the gear to each shelter; they have the interior partitions, cooking gear, power supplies, lighting – need I go on?"

"Oh," she replied, chagrinned – then said, "So why didn't tell us to do that too? After all, he's got a real stick up his ass about proving our inferiority," she pointed out. "Why not have us do all the manual labor?"

He grinned. "It would take too long – and while Femishar won't hesitate to make us do the majority of the labor, he won't do it at the cost of missing a meal," he pointed out.

She nodded, suspecting that Femishar hadn't missed many meals in the past few years then turned to her companion, looking unfamiliar in his dig clothes – and smiled. "You look funny when you're not wearing your clothes," she said.

Startled, he glanced down at himself – then nodded as he understood her meaning. "It is a little odd being out of uniform," he agreed.

"It's not the only thing that's odd about you, Jean-Luc," she continued. "Based on what I've seen for the last few hours, I'm surprised you agreed to join this little experiment in human bashing; it's not like you. Even if it's so you could get in on this dig, it's just not like you," she said.

Picard gave a weary shake of his head. "I know – but a year ago, when we first discussed my joining the dig, he wasn't like this," he admitted, thinking over the last year and the changes it had brought. "Now I think there is almost no limit to what he would do to ensure his own place in Kvesterian society," he admitted.

Andile shook her head, perplexed. "Makes no damned sense, does it?"

"I admit I don't understand the change," he concurred. "When we first met, he was difficult – but overall, the dig was his primary concern – but since them – indeed, in the last few days - he's been increasingly unreasonable. Something must have happened to bring on this change," he said. "Maybe his tenure has been threatened," he suggested.

"Then wouldn't it be more likely he'd be pushing to make the dig of primary importance?" Andile asked. "No, I think you're right: something changed – but I don't think it was his tenure that's been threatened," she said with a grin. "I think, my dear Admiral, that the problem is a little closer to home; I think his students have become enthralled with you – and it's threatening his ego," she surmised.

He gaped at her, dumbfounded – then vehemently shook his head. "No. That's not possible," he insisted.

"Yes, you," she grinned. "Admit it, Jean-Luc; you're a very interesting human. Not only are you the first human most of them have met, but you're also a Starfleet Admiral, the legendary captain of the legendary Enterprise, the man who responsible for the defeat of the Borg, a man who caused the Romulan invasion to go down in failure, who initiated peaceful contact with the Breen... shall I go on?"

He looked at her skeptically, doubtfully. "Dee..."

"Jean-Luc, what those students know about humans, they know from history books. And like it or not, those books include you... as a hero – and to whatever degree, they're in awe. But in Femishar's mind, he's the only one they should see that way, and he's going to do everything he can to make sure they end this adventure with no doubt in their mind as to who the superior person is... but it damned well better be him.

"Then again, if we don't get these shelters up before bedtime, he's going to prove his point," she added, then reached down to grab the heavy bag she had been carrying, pulled out a spanner and offered it to her friend.

He took it – then stopped and studied the tool. "You know, Dee, I've always rather enjoyed building things," he said, "to watch one's ideas made manifest by one's own efforts."

She stared at him, then rolled her eyes. "It's a shelter, Jean-Luc; as you pointed out, just four walls, one roof... it's not Temple of the Sun, after all."

"You have to start someplace," he countered – then smiled, hefted the spanner, and gestured for her to go ahead.

Six hours of grueling work, however – six hours and five changes on the part of Femishar regarding the location of the buildings, had left them both in a foul mood.

Foul... and famished.

Not that Dee was going to admit it, Picard thought as he stared at his blistered hands; she'd rather sit here, furious at Femishar, me and the world rather than admit she was hungry.

Or rather, she preferred to go hungry rather than face Femishar's patronizing and pedantic attitude.

He didn't blame her of course; Femishar was an ass, and he had made this first day miserable for them both.

Now his arms, back and legs ached with over-strained muscles, his hands were covered with cuts and blisters from constructing the shelters, and all he wanted was to eat and go to sleep.

Andile, on the other hand, was having no part of either.

"Come on," he insisted, his hand extended toward her.

"Go on without me," she growled back.

"No. Either we go together, keeping a unified front for Femishar, or we don't go," he insisted, pushing his hand at her once more.

"Then we don't go," she said grumpily.

"All right, we won't go," he agreed, lowering his hand – then lowering himself to sit beside her.

"Fine," she grumbled back.

The growing shadows should have been accompanied with a drop in temperature, Picard thought, but the high humidity that was typical of the rainforest kept the temperature high – and damned uncomfortable. They could, of course, have simply moved inside the shelter, where the air conditioning units would have granted them both a blessed respite from the heat and humidity – and where the comfortable surrounding would quickly lull their overtired bodies and minds into sleep.

Not a bad thought, he admitted – but tempting as the idea was, he also knew that to avoid dinner with the Kvesterians would set a bad precedent – not to mention that he _was_ hungry.

Still, he sat in uncomfortable silence beside Andile for several minutes, the stillness of the rainforest interrupted only by the sound of the wind in the high canopies – and by the low growl of Picard's stomach.

Despite himself, despite Andile's foul mood, he gave a low chuckle.

_What's so damned funny?_ she thought at him.

_Nothing. I was just thinking... Beverly..._ He stopped for a moment, then continued. _Beverly and I were on a mission – one that went... amiss,_ he added.

_Amiss?_

She felt a wave of good humor cross his thoughts. "The mission we were sent to perform never happened," he continued aloud. "We had been sent to negotiate membership in the Federation for a new planet, but as we were beaming down, the transporter beam was intercepted by a second political faction..."

"Starfleet was negotiating with a planet that wasn't unified?" she replied, astounded. "I thought that contravened Starfleet policy?"

"It did – and still does," he admitted, "but..."

"Let me guess: the planet had resources that the Federation needed, and the Federation was willing to bypass that regulation?" she said. "Isn't that the same attitude that caused the problem in the Briar Patch?" she asked him.

Picard nodded unhappily. "And on a dozen other worlds," he conceded – then managed a resigned shrug. "I'm hardly in a position to protest, Dee; I've violated the Prime Directive – and a hundred other regs - on more times than I can remember, because I've held that the circumstances required an abeyance of the rule. It's a simple matter to justify bending the rules when you think the situation requires it."

"And when you have the authority to do so," she added. "Woe unto those whose opinions carry less weight."

He looked at her soberly. "I've always tried to act for the greater good," he told her.

"I'm sure Starfleet made the same argument – but who's to decide what the greater good is? You had the authority and the power – but the judgments you applied were based on your culture's teachings," she answered, "and those teachings might not be the same as others."

He studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "I know," he agreed soberly. 'I've been considering that quite a lot for the last few years," he thought, then fell silent for a few minutes.

"Then think harder next time, Picard," she snapped, "because you sure as hell didn't have a lot of qualms about tearing me away from my children."

It was for the best, he started to reply – then stopped.

It was for the best, he knew – for her and for them... but maybe there had been a better way, he conceded. A harder way, yes, one that couldn't have been accomplished so easily, one that might have forced him to work harder, perhaps even sacrifice this holiday... but one that would have kept her with her children.

Her children, he repeated; she had been forced away from her first child, forced to watch her die...

_She didn't 'die'; I killed her,_ she reminded him, her thoughts as cold as ice. _I murdered my daughter. Better that you take me away from these children before I kill them, too._

Horrified at her silent accusation, he turned to her – but she had looked away, her face hidden by her thick hair, her mind blocked from his.

For a long time, she stared wordlessly into the depths of the rainforest.

Finally, she let out a long-held breath and looked back at him. _So you and the doc were beaming down, you were intercepted, and..._ she prompted.

_We were caught, subjected to a medical procedure that implanted a device in our brains that would allow our captors to read our thoughts, and thrown in prison to await the outcome of those procedures._

Andile frowned at him, puzzled. _And this relates to your stomach... how?_

He grinned. _We managed to escape before the devices began to work fully – only to discover that we were now in tune with one another's thoughts._

_Ah._

_Ah?_

_Ah – as in, ah, so that's why you don't seem to have a problem when your mind and mine are in contact. It's... not natural to you, but familiar,_ she explained.

Picard nodded. _My contact with Beverly wasn't my first experience in mental contact – but it was the first prolonged one, and the first of that degree. After a few hours, I was not only hearing her thoughts, but I was beginning to sense what she felt – including the pangs of hunger, and her fixation on vegetable soup. So right now, while I know that I'm hungry, I know you are as well,_ he pointed out.

Andile smiled – but after a moment, the smile faded. "Jean-Luc, if you were in such close contact, you must have been able to share how you each felt about the other. So why didn't you two...?" she asked, then watched him as she let the question hang.

As she expected, he didn't answer, but stood instead. "It's getting late – and if we don't get there soon, Femishar is going to proceed without us," he informed her, then walked away, following the rough trail that led from their shelter to the main camp area.

Another petty act of Femishar's, Picard had realized as he had followed the muddy trail toward his friend and their temporary home a few minutes before; after having seen the location of the one upright shelter, he promptly decided that the remaining shelters and work sites should be located elsewhere, proclaiming the smell of the humans and their personal grooming habits would be too offensive to be closer to the Kvesterians.

Judging from the reaction of his team, however, it appeared that the only one who would be offended was Femishar himself; the others seemed genuinely disappointed in having the humans shelter a good quarter mile from where Femishar had finally decided the work site would be.

The curiosity of youth, Picard mused as he walked back toward the eating area – though he doubted Andile's supposition that the cause of that curiosity was his own colorful past; it was far more likely that Femishar's students simply weren't yet fixed into the rigid structure of their society - and they were interested in learning about this culture that they had not yet experienced.

Well, to whatever extent he could appease their curiosity without imperiling their place in Kvesterian society, he would, Picard thought; perhaps they would grow up more tolerant than their teacher.

"Careful, Picard," Andile muttered as she reached his side, "you're equating tolerant with good; that's an Earther belief, not a universal one – and applying your cultural standards to another culture is a habit that could well be the downfall of Starfleet and the Federation," she cautioned him.

"You don't approve of youthful curiosity?" he asked as they walked.

She gave him a caustic glare. "You know I do – but it's not for me to decide how a culture shapes its people."

"Oh?" he countered. "Didn't you just rescue thirty children from Cardassia because you didn't approve Cardassian politics?"

"That was different!" Andile protested angrily.

"It's always different, Dee," he reminded her.

"They would have died!"

He stopped, turned to her, and met her eyes. "That's how it is, Dee," he said soberly. "Whatever we do – or choose not to do – people die. That's the hardest part of this job; knowing that whatever you do, you can not save them all."

She looked back at him for a long time, seeing the pain, the loss, the failure of every decision that he had made that had cost others their lives – and regretted the pain her words had caused him.

But he was wrong, she thought; oh, so wrong.

"I'm going to save them all, Jean-Luc. If it takes the rest of my days, I'm going to save them all."

He looked at her for a long time – then extended a hand to her. "Come," he said, "we're going to be late."

Despite the relative nearness of the main work area, it took the two almost another five minutes before they were able to work their way through the thick undergrowth to the buildings that served as kitchen and dining areas. To Picard's surprise, however, Femishar and his people were standing in front of the dining area, clearly holding off on beginning their meal, waiting for the two humans to arrive.

Femishar glared at the Starfleet captain, wrinkled his nose at the two, then ordered his people into the kitchen enclosure.

"I believe that that is as close to an invitation to dine as we're going to get," Picard said, then added, "After you."

Entering the shelter, the scent of unfamiliar foods cooked in unfamiliar ways with herbs and spices that she had never smelled or tasted before almost overwhelmed Andile; for a moment, she felt a wave of nausea wash over her, strong enough to drive her to her knees.

Before she could fall, though, a hand reached for her, supporting her – and a moment latter, a second followed, helping her to her feet.

"Dee..." Picard said as he helped lift her – but the second voice cut him off.

"Tironbyaj," the warm, young voice of a male said to her. "Are you unwell?"

Taken aback by the strong arm and the gentle voice, she raised her eyes to the emerald green ones of her second savior – then forced a smile and shook her head.

"I think I'm just a little hungrier than I realized," she confessed. "The aroma took me by surprise," she added.

"Khralton," the young man explained.

"Khralton?" she echoed.

"A savory spice," Picard interjected. "Not unlike tumeric," he added. "Pungent – but quite delicious when used properly," he informed her.

"Quite so, Admiral," the man agreed. "But the scent can be somewhat... intense... if you're not familiar with it. My apologies," he added.

_What was that?_ Andile asked her companion curiously. _Did a Kvesterian just apologize to us?_

_Not to us; to you,_ he pointed out.

With surprising and uncharacteristic grace, the Kvesterian pulled Andile away from Picard, escorting her to a place at the large dining table, then quickly left to rejoin the line.

Looking down at Andile, Picard said, "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Fine," she said. "It really was just the smell," she admitted. "I guess I forgot to eat this morning..."

"And last night, I presume," he countered.

She looked at him knowingly. "Oh, like you've never done that!"

He grinned back. "Not recently. Starfleet admirals have assistants to tend to that kind of thing," he informed her.

"And I usually have S'bey," she countered. "It's just that we don't usually have any food to eat – and when we do, we feed the children first..."

Her voice caught slightly as a memory passed over her; Picard, sensing the wave of grief and terrifying memory, lay a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Stay here," he said softly, then moved away.

She nodded even as he left, trying not to think of the children she had just left – or the hundreds, thousands, that she had been unable to save.

I'll come back, she promised them silently; I'll come back for you all, no matter how long it takes.

A plate of food was placed before her – but it wasn't until the steam, heady with the scent of foreign grains, vegetables and spices reached her nose that she became aware of it.

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, letting the rich scent fill her senses, then smiled. "Thank you, Jean-Luc," she said, then opened her eyes, looked up at her culinary benefactor, smiled – and then flamed red.

"Ishama," the young man who had kept her from falling replied.

"Ishama?"

He smiled. "My name; it's Ishama. Emyetz Eeyetz Femishar Ishama," he furthered.

"Ah," she said, then looked at the plate of food before her – then at the one in his hands, then at the hopeful expression on his face. "Would you like to join me?" she asked.

Ishama hesitated, looking down the table.

"The Professor sits first?" she asked curiously.

"Yes," he agreed. "And eats first," he added, looking at her worriedly.

Andile smiled. "Don't worry, I won't embarrass you," she assured him.

Relieved, he watched the far end of the table, then as Femishar took his seat, he quickly eased in beside Andile, his eyes bright with anticipation.

"So, is this your first dig?" he asked.

"The commander is an experienced archaeologist," a deep baritome offered from the opposite side.

Andile turned to face Picard who stood beside her, a plate heaped with food in each hand.

"I see you've already been served," he said dryly.

"I'm sorry, Admiral," Ishama said, jumping to his feet. "I didn't mean to..."

"Please sit down," Picard replied, then set the two plates down, began to ease himself into the seat on Andile's other side – then stopped. "Unless I'm interrupting something," he began.

"You're not," she said quietly, then added, "sit down, Jean-Luc -and you, Ishama. Sit down."

Ishama look at Picard with a somewhat uncertain look, then shook his head. "I should be with the Professor," he said quickly, then, taking his plate, quickly rejoined the other Kvesterians at the far side of the table.

Picard watched the man leave, then looked back to his companion for a moment – then smiled at the three plates that were now before the two people. "So much for going hungry tonight," he said.

Picking up the single utensil that was used by the Kvesterians, Andile drew up a generous portion, sniffed at it delicately, tasted it tentatively, then downed the bite voraciously. "Damn, that's good," she said, her words muffled as they tried to make their way around the obstacles of grain and vegetable even as she collected another portion on the utensil. "Eat up, Picard, or one of us _will_ be going hungry tonight – and it won't be me," she said, eyeing the third plate.

He grinned, then, following her lead, took a bite of the mixture.

It was delicious, he thought as he chewed the bite; grains, not unlike barley, but somewhat drier and chewier, vegetables that somewhat resembled the root vegetables his mother would serve in the winter months, all swimming in a thick broth seasoned with spices that the Picard homestead had never seen; delicious, he repeated – but the seasoning of hunger born from a long day's hard labor would have made any meal equally savory.

"Delicious," Andile said after a moment, her voice breaking the silence that filled the room. "Your people could make a fortune selling this technology to the Federation," she informed them. "Our self-heating meals taste nothing like this!"

Femishar harrumphed noisily. "Our people do not use self-heating meals," he gloated. "We insist upon freshly prepared foods at every meal."

_Except for those they replicate,_ Andile thought to Picard, who hid a smile behind a mouthful of food.

"Then one of you cooked this?" she said aloud.

One of the men seated away from Femishar's side inclined his head slightly. "I'm glad you like it," he beamed.

"Too much evak!" Femishar snapped.

Taken aback, the young man instantly pulled back, dropping his head slightly. "My apologies," he said quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear his acceptance of the rebuke.

"Well, I'm not sure what evak is, but this is quite delicious," Andile insisted.

The man ventured a slight glance up, beamed at Andile, then bowed his head again, still chastised – but clearly feeling the sting less sharply now.

"Do you have similar foods on Earth, Tironbyaj?" one of the young women asked.

Andile shook her head. "The admiral is the one to whom you should ask that question; I'm not from Earth," she informed them.

"Not from Earth?" the far side of the table exploded, then decorum was swept away in a wash of youthful enthusiasm as the students rose and made their way to the end of the table, surrounding the two humans as questions erupted from all of them without pause.

"Where are..." "Ishama said Tironbyaj is a Romulan name..." "Admiral Picard said you were an archaeologist; where did you study?"

The questions coming at her so quickly that she was unable to hear them all, let alone answer them – but even so, she could feel Picard chuckling silently beside her.

_What's so damned funny?_ she asked him.

_Me,_ he answered. _You - us,_ he added with a chuckle.

_What?_

_Hubris, old friend; hubris. You thought – and I let myself believe – that these young people were fascinated by _my_ exploits, _my_ history, when the true cause was something far different – if far closer,_ he added, rising from the table as he spoke to her.

_But if it's not you, then what?_ she began, utterly puzzled.

_You,_ he answered quietly. _They're fascinated – by you._

_I don't understand._

_They're young, Dee; they're young and out in the universe for the first time – and they just learned that someone their own age who has seen more of the universe than they ever will is right next to them. Of course they're fascinated... by you._

_But I'm a hundred times older than they are – than you are!_ she protested, looking up at his as he reached for his plate of food and began to move away.

_They don't know that; they only know what they see – someone their own age who's seen the worlds they are just beginning to explore,_ he explained.

_So why is Femishar pissed off?_ she asked. _I'm no threat to him!_

He studied her for a long moment; studied the lines of her face, still strong and bold, but now warmed by the sun, flushed from the hours of hard work, her lips full and dark, the rich, thick tresses of her hair that framed that face, her body slim, muscular, hints of curves hidden beneath her clothes... and understood the threat that the human posed to Femishar's fragile hold on these students.

Or rather, he corrected himself, the threat Femishar felt she made.

_No, you're not,_ he agreed, knowing the grief she had suffered, knowing the self-imposed celibacy that grief had forced upon her. _But he doesn't know that,_ he added.

_So where are you going?_ she protested.

_To sit with Femishar,_ he told her. _To reassure him, commiserate, and mourn the days we've lost._

As he stepped away from her, she began to protest, but the Kvesterians quickly moved to fill in the gap he made as he left.

Andile stared after him for a moment longer – then slowly turned, smiled at those around her, and began to speak.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

"Captain's log, stardate..." Will's voice faded away as he struggled to finish the sentence.

Damn! What the hell date was it? he asked himself blearily, looking across the desk in his ready room, trying to see the numbers on chronometer, then giving up on the effort as a lost cause.

He couldn't see them – but more to the point, he didn't care. Not about the date, not even about the time; all that mattered to Will Riker at this moment was completing this report – and going to bed.

His bed.

His bed where his beautiful wife lay sound asleep, the worries and responsibilities of a starship command post no longer her concern... at least for a while, he added.

Exhausted, he ran a hand over his red-rimmed eyes, wiping away the grit that had accumulated in their corners and gave a sigh.

It was a tempting idea, he allowed himself; to take leave, a holiday... maybe even to quit, to step away not just from the center seat but from Starfleet itself, to find a nice, quiet world where his greatest concern would be to care for his new family... and not about the work of a starship captain.

Indeed, it was days like this that made him wonder why he had ever sought that center seat – or rather, weeks like this that made him question his career plans.

In theory, this week – and the next few weeks to come - should have been a cakewalk; a routine rendezvous with a freighter to discuss future colonization plans, followed by an equally routine survey of a recently novaed star, followed by an extremely routine mapping update of the asteroid belt of the nearby Ventari system... All part and parcel of the work of a crew whose primary focus was on the scientific exploration of the galaxy in which they lived.

But somehow, what should have been the norm was more often the exception – and this week was no different.

A minor flare-up in the ongoing hostilities between Sigma V and the neighboring Sigma VI had necessitated Starfleet intervention – and in their infinite wisdom, the Admiralty had deemed that the personal attention of the flagship of the fleet's captain was required in order to assure both sides that they were well and truly appreciated by the Federation – personal attention that had meant attending a marathon negotiation that lasted more than thirty hours.

Thirty hours, Will thought with a groan; had it lasted another thirty minutes, he would have told both sides what to do with their demands, and left them to fight it out on their own – and come back to mop up the mess later.

In the end, though, and only after Will offered the Federation's assistance in repairing both sides' faltering weather satellites, they had agreed to 'play nice', as Deanna had so succinctly put it.

Imzadi, he sighed wistfully; if only you had been there, you could have seen what they had both wanted so much more easily than I did.

Or not, he admitted a moment later; her pregnancy had rendered her empathy almost useless, he knew, and while she was a skilled negotiator on her own, her empathy gave her an edge that had made the difference on more than one occasion.

Still, it would have made the last few days easier, Will thought, considering the possibility of requesting another Betazoid – or an Ullian for that matter – aboard as an adjunct to those meetings. It would facilitate discussions...

And terminate my marriage, he added quickly; while Deanna, the officer, would understand the need for someone to fulfill those duties she could no longer perform, Deanna the woman could only be hurt by it. Of course, if she were to suggest it... he mused.

Then again, she could also suggest a night of fun for them both with a Risan courtesan, he mused, letting his mind drift over both of the equally unlikely scenarios.

He closed his eyes, smiling at the possibilities – then opened them with a start, feeling himself starting to drifting off in his chair – and realizing, disappointedly, that the idea of an assistant on the bridge was, at least for the moment, the more appealing of his two fantasies.

I'm getting old, he thought grimly.

No, he amended an instant later; I'm just getting tired.

Really tired.

And about to get even more tired, he added, glancing at the report Alyssa Ogawa had given him several hours earlier; thirty hours of dancing around the Sigmoids was nothing compared to the dance he was about to have to do with someone far less cooperative.

"You're sure about this?" he had asked her when she had brought the padd to him earlier that evening.

"I'm sure," she confirmed. "I've been sure since I first examined the girls; I was just hoping I was being pessimistic."

"And there's a reason you still sent Biji off to play in the dirt, knowing this?" he pressed tersely.

"Captain," Alyssa countered sharply, "while Biji may not be my patient anymore, I can still tell when she's on the breaking point; for the sake of her physical and mental health – and for the sake of these children who depend on her, she needed some time to recover. Letting her 'play in the dirt', as you call it may be what keeps her and these children alive."

Will's eyes widened at the sharp retort – but he said nothing, knowing he had been dismissive of his friend's needs – and more importantly, of his CMO's medical opinion.

Not a good idea, he thought – at least when she's was the only person on board who could deem him unfit to captain the ship.

More to the point, however, was that it was not a good idea for morale, he reminded himself; Alyssa Ogawa had proven herself as a competent, capable and often brilliant physician; to dismiss her opinion would be to question the input of his senior staff.

Jean-Luc had never openly dismissed his staff's opinions; he might have opted to act in a way contrary to their advice – but he never publicly questioned their expert recommendations.

If Alyssa thought that Beej need a holiday, then she needed a holiday, he conceded – even if the timing was atrocious.

He opened his mouth to apologize – but Alyssa spoke before he could.

"I'm sorry, Captain," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to snap. It's just... This is hard for all of us. Having Biji here wouldn't help. She's not a physician, let alone a neonatalogist; there's nothing she could do for those girls or their babies, except fret and worry – and that's not going to benefit any of them. The hell of it is that there's not much more that I can do for them," she conceded with a sigh, settling back into the couch in his ready room, her frustration and exasperation evident on her face. "Treating the radiation exposure to the mothers was simple enough – and the genetic damage they suffered will have some long term consequences, but the initial treatment they received is keeping it in abeyance, and we'll be able to finish their treatment without difficulty after they give birth.

"However, both of their fetuses were severely affected, Captain – and I simply don't have the experience to attempt an in utero DNA revision."

"I thought you said the repairs could wait until after they were born..." he protested.

"I thought it could – I _hoped_ it could - but I'm not sure either fetus will survive long enough to be born. I've been trying the standard radiation exposure regimen for this type of case, but it's been ineffective. I suspect it's due to the placental barrier – it limits the passage of material between mother and fetus," she explained. "If they were human – or Betazoid, or any race that was a member of the Federation, it wouldn't be a problem; we've had the time to develop drugs for those races that would augment the crossover rate. But the Cardassian are relatively new to us, in terms of the intricacies of their physiological systems. What works on us might kill them," she reminded him.

"And the Cardassians have never been willing to share information about their medical practices or its findings," Will answered.

Probably because those findings were often made through acts of medicine that would have been deemed unethical – or even criminal – by the worlds of the Federation, he knew. What findings they had made – and they had made many of them, often wonderful, potentially life-enhancing for so many races – were clouded by that taint; no reputable or creditable physician outside Cardassia would base willingly or knowingly allow that research to be the basis of their own research.

And so people died, before their time, when life was an option they might have had under other circumstances.

Will sighed, then shook his head, allowing himself to drift back to the report Alyssa had given him.

"So what do we do?" he asked.

"We have a few options, starting with... doing nothing. We sit back, hope both girls deliver their babies alive and that the genetic mutations are minimal and can be dealt with surgical or through treatment then."

Will raised his eyes, hoping that was a viable option.

"Odds?"

"I can't say for sure, but I'm guessing at less than 1 in 10," she replied. "In humans, most of the development is in the first two trimester and babies just grow bigger, stronger and better able to survive outside the womb.

"In Cardassian, the development pattern is different; they develop the organs first, then use the last months in utero to develop connections between those systems. The radiation exposure was at the right time to interfere with those interconnections – probably," she added. "Given that neither girl has spontaneously aborted their fetus, my guess is that the children are still viable – for now. But we need to make sure that those connections can finish being made, or the children, if they survive being born, may only live a day, a week... maybe a month. I won't know until they're born, Captain – and I'd rather not find out," she added.

"Then that option is out," Will decided. "What other choices do we have?" he asked.

"Divert the ship to the nearest starbase with a level one medical center," she said.

"And they have the resources to save the infants?" he asked doubtfully.

That didn't make sense, he knew; Starfleet prided itself on making sure that the starships it sent into space were as capable as any of its starbases, whether it was in engineering, political affairs, environmental or medicine. Admittedly, not every ship had a Geordi LaForge or a Jean-Luc Picard – but every ship was staffed with the best and brightest that Starfleet had to offer. There was little that a starbase could offer that a ship of the line could not.

Then again, he thought, Alyssa Ogawa, good as she was, was not a Beverly Crusher – or for that matter, even a Gregory Matthew.

Will drew a deep breath, knowing he was about to venture into perilous territory...

... territory, he learned an instant later, that Alyssa had already traveled.

"And before you ask, yes, I've already talked with Dr. Matthews," she said.

"And?" Will asked, holding out hope that the medical genius – the obnoxious, rude and offensive, but unquestionably brilliant genius - that Starfleet had forced upon the Enterprise four years before had found a solution to their problem.

"He says he has no experience in the field," she said, quickly adding, "and I believe him. Obstetrics isn't not a field that would have welcomed him, Will," she said bluntly, "and he had no interest in it beyond the required courses, let alone in the specialized areas of xeno-natalogy.

"More to the point, though, is that I'm not sure we could get them treated at a starbase," she added a moment later.

He gave her a troubled look. "Doctor, under the Compassion Laws..."

"The Compassion Laws cover our immediate treatment of these children, sir, because it was an emergency and their lives were in immediate peril," she reminded him. "If we divert to a starbase, however, that criteria may no longer apply."

Will sighed, then nodded, knowing she was right; Starfleet awarded ships' captains a liberal degree of freedom in making field decision where the chain of command might not be readily accessible. But the moment they deferred the decisions in a given circumstance to the admiralty, they lost that freedom; from that point on, Starfleet captains were then bound to follow the letter and spirit of the pronouncements their superior made.

But to save the lives of these two unborn children, he thought, considering how much he would have sacrificed to save the life of his own child.

But would it save them? he asked himself. Or would they become a political football between the Federation and the Cardassians – or worse? After all, here were thirty children being transported – illegally, Will suspected, despite Andile's protests to the contrary – through Federation space. Rather than saving the lives of the two infants, it would probably bring about their deaths as the two sides argued politics about who had the responsibility and the right to care for them until it was too late to treat them – and possibly result in the remaining children being returned to Cardassia, and to the hell that they had almost died trying to escape.

Will Riker looked at his CMO soberly.

"So what do we do?"

Alyssa gave a reluctant sigh. "You're not going to like it," she said.

"What is it?"

"I need you to call in a favor," she replied. "A personal favor. Maybe more than one, before it's all done," she added.

"What favor?" Will snapped, growing exasperated.

"First, I believe that if we were to infuse a series of Cardassian neurotransmitters directly into the cerebrospinal fluid of the fetuses, we could supplant the development of the interconnective fibers that the radiation appears to have interrupted," she said.

"Then do so," he said, perplexed at why she hadn't already moved forward with the process.

But Alyssa countered him with a shake of her head. "I can't; I don't have the knowledge or the skill. But I know someone who does – that is, I know someone who has performed the same process in a human. Two people, actually," she added.

"Two?"

"Well, more than two," she conceded.

"Who?!" he roared in frustration.

"The Breen have the technology," she said. "That's what they did to the Captain when he was captured four years ago: they put microscopic cannula into his brain and flooded it with neurotransmitters," she explained.

They 'deposed' him, Will thought coldly, remembering the Breen term for the torturous process that almost killed Picard – and had killed dozens of others, he reminded himself.

But it hadn't killed him, he added a moment later – and even after that brutal assault, the man had found it within himself to forgive his attackers, and even to begin peaceful negotiations with them.

If Picard could forgive them after what they did, I can do so as well, he told himself.

"Then you want me to contact the Breen?" he concluded.

Alyssa shook her head. "I think that might create a bigger political nightmare than contacting Starfleet," she said. "No, not the Breen – but that same process was used to supply Biji's brain with transmitters during her recovery," she said, looking at Will meaningfully.

He stared back – then let out a sigh. "You want me to call Beverly," he concluded.

Alyssa nodded. "She's done it on Beej; more importantly, her position at Starfleet Medical means she has had access to restricted data on Cardassian physiology. If anyone could do this, she could," she replied.

Will considered that fact for a long time – then shook his head. "I thought she was at a conference on the other side of the quadrant," he said, remembering what Deanna and Jean-Luc had said about her decision not to join him on the dig on Samarassia IV. "It would take us over a week to get her here. Do we have a week?"

"No," Alyssa replied.

Will sighed, frustrated, running out of ideas and hope for the unborn children.

"But she's not at the conference," she said. "I got in touch with them when I realized this was the only viable approach we had – and they said she never arrived."

"What?!" Will gaped.

But rather than look at him with concern, Alyssa smiled. "I spoke with one of her friends there who said she changed her mind at the last minute, commandeered – that was his word – Captain Elric's personal yacht, and headed out for parts unknown."

"Damn! Then she could be anywhere!" Will answered.

"Could be – but isn't," Alyssa said with a knowing grin. "I tracked her down; she's on her way to Samarassia IV, Captain – to join Admiral Picard."

Will grinned at the news, delighted that Beverly had finally come to her senses about the one man who had loved her unreservedly since the day he had met her – even if he had never admitted it to anyone – and was finally on her way to admit the same thing...

...and I'm going to have to stop her, he realized an instant later.

Damn it! he thought. God damn it!

Why me?

He gave Alyssa a resigned look. "And you want me to stop her," he said.

"No – and yes," she conceded. "No, because according to the officer I reached at one of the deep space stations on her original route, she's intending to rendezvous with us for refueling. And yes, I need you to tell her she can't go on to Samarassia IV," she added quietly.

Will studied the woman for a long moment, not wanting to voice what they both knew.

Beverly and Jean-Luc had loved each other for more years than either Will or Alyssa had been alive – loved each other, refused to admit it lest they hurt others, denied their love, then danced around it, and finally admitted it – then for reasons Will had never fully understood, had separated – only to have Beverly finally decide to join Jean-Luc.

And now he, Will Riker, was going to stop her.

Beverly would agree to his request, he knew; she would understand the reasons, understand the necessity, understand the lives that were at risk – and she would acquiesce, despite the personal cost.

That was part and parcel of being a Starfleet officer, he knew.

It didn't mean that any of them had to like it.

"All right," he conceded at last.

"Thank you, Captain," she said. "If she's sticking to the course she was given, she'll be in contact range within twenty hours. But if we went to meet her..." she added hopefully.

"Understood, Doctor," he said, then touched his commbadge. "Riker to Worf. Initiate a level three scan for an incoming Federation vessel; focus scan along these coordinates," he said, reaching out a hand for the padd the Alyssa proferred, then reading them out to the bridge crew.

"Understood, Captain," Worf's low voice replied. "May I ask what we are looking for?"

Will considered for a moment, then opted to keep the details of their inbound visitor a secret – at least for the moment. Still...

"An old friend, Worf," he said. "We're looking for an old friend."

He touched his badge to break the connection, then looked at Alyssa. "Anything else?"

She shook her head. "Thank you, Captain. I appreciate what you're doing," she added.

"What I'm doing is nothing," he reminded her.

Their eyes met for a moment, then she looked down at her padd, knowing what they were about to ask of their friends.

"I'll need to get the consent of the mothers; I'll talk with them and S'bey, explain what we're planning to do. I'd like to ask Deanna to join us; the girls have established a rapport with her," she added, looking at him hopefully.

"Of course," he agreed.

She had left him then, left him to continue his search for Beverly's inbound craft – and left him to draft a report to Starfleet that would dance around the facts enough to allow them to treat these children and get them to safety – without ending up in front of a court martial.

But if it came to that, Will thought, I could live with it; I did the right thing. Perhaps not the correct thing, as Starfleet would see it, but the right thing.

Still, he stared at the padd and its unwritten report for hours, until time and fatigue had begun to take the best of him.

At long last, he gave up the effort as lost, resolving to write something that would pass muster in the morning, and began to rise from his chair – only to be startled by the chirp of the door annunciator.

"Come!" he barked.

Worf stepped into the room, his typical Klingon frown in place.

Will gave him a surprised look. "You're up late," he said, knowing the hour was well past the end of the first officer's duty shift.

"Given your description of our approaching guest, I thought it might be advisable to remain on the bridge and restrict the number of people who were made aware of the search parameters," Worf growled.

Will grinned. "Didn't want any rumors starting, eh?" he said.

"I thought it might be... inadvisable," Worf agreed.

"It would," Will conceded. "And...?"

"And our guest is in range," Worf continued. "I have hailed her vessel; she is waiting on channel one-six," he informed his senior officer. "I have secured the channel," he added.

"Good," Will replied. "I'll talk to her... alone," he added pointedly.

But Worf had already made his way to the door, his place in this conversation already known to him.

"I'll await your orders, sir," he said, then exited the room.

Will looked at the monitor for a moment, then tugged his uniform tunic into place, took his chair at the desk, and tabbed the comm switch – and looked into the eyes of his old friend.

There was something there, he thought, something he had not seen for so long – not since those last days when they were all aboard the Enterprise together, before he and Deanna had married, before Beverly had left for Starfleet Medical, before Data had died: when there had been hope – and so much more – for Beverly and Picard.

And now I have to take that away.

He stared at her for a long moment – then smiled. "Beverly," he said.

"Will," she replied.

The two stared at each other for a moment, then both spoke simultaneously. "I need a favor..."

They stopped as one, smiled awkwardly, then Beverly inclined her head. "You first," she said.

Will drew a deep breath, then began.

Fifteen minutes later, he stepped onto the bridge, moving quickly, quietly to where Worf waited.

"Adjust course to meet the yacht; bring her aboard as quietly as you can, and secure quarters for Dr. Crusher... as discretely as you can. The fewer people that knows she's on board, the better," he said.

Worf nodded, not understanding – but knowing it was not always necessary for a Klingon to understand. "I'll make the arrangement, Captain. Did you want to meet with her?"

"In the morning," Will said. "In the morning."

Worf nodded. "It will be taken care of, sir," he told the man. "Might I suggest you now retire?" he added.

Will nodded in reply, then wordlessly left the bridge, turning as he entered the lift, staring at the bridge, the doors sliding closed to shut off the view.

But he didn't see the bridge: all he could see were the eyes of his friend, stricken by the fight between love denied for too long – and duty.

Duty had won, of course; it always did.

He hated that; he hated that he knew his friend so well he could use her dedication against her – and hated himself for doing it.

But it was my duty, he told himself – not to Starfleet, but to those children.

Still, he thought, it would be a long time before I'll forgive myself.

It would be longer still before Beverly would forgive him.

But he doubted Picard ever would.


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

As Jean-Luc Picard looked around the dig site, a flash of an old – very old – memory came back to him.

His mother, he recalled, showing him a picture in a bright and colorful book – a real book, he added, remembering how his father had insisted on only having the traditional style of educational materials present in his house – and gently pressing him to go beyond looking at the colors and shapes, to actually study the scene.

"What's wrong with this picture, Jean-Luc?" she would coax him, then laugh in delight as he would find discrepancies for her – although the ones that his child's eye and mind discovered were not always the same as the ones she had seen.

He had loved the way she laughed, the corners of her eyes crinkling as her face lighted with her joy at watching how her son was discovering and exploring the world around him; even now, almost a century later, he could still feel a faint wash of that happiness at even the memory of her laugh.

There was not, however, he added, growing grim, anything overly funny about the scene that spread out before him now.

Of the eleven people present at the dig, eight of them were young, strong, physically fit; one was just reaching middle age; one was decidedly old – and the last was ancient beyond the ken of any of the others – except, perhaps, one.

So why then were the two that were least fit to do the hardest manual labor the ones doing it? he asked himself again, then hefted the pickaxe once more.

Well, perhaps not the least fit, he amended, feeling the welcoming sensation of muscles tightening and releasing as he brought the tool over his shoulder and slammed it into the ground, a rush of endorphins granting him a sense of reward even as the knowledge that he was still capable of such activity filled him with a sense of accomplishment. He doubted that Femishar – a being barely half his age - could heft the pickaxe once, let alone work at cracking through the centuries old compacted clay and rock that lay beneath the thin soil of the rainforest for days on end.

But the others, he muttered silently, swinging the axe once more, and hearing it hit the ground with a satisfying thud; the others could be doing this, he thought. They were young, they were fit – far fitter than he was, he thought; they could – they should! - be doing at least some of this work.

Not that he objected to doing his share of the manual labor on the dig, he told himself; he had made that point clear with Femishar: he didn't expect any exceptional privileges due to his rank – or his age. He would do his share of the work – manual labor included.

But at no point in their discussion had he ever suggested that manual labor was all he would do, he grumbled wordlessly.

He swung the axe again, feeling the weight shift as he raised it over his head, then let it fall, hearing the sound of the sharp instrument slipping through layers of mud, dragged it back, then raised it again.

Admittedly, he added as he worked, the younger Kvesterians had tried to voice their disapproval of the situation – but not only had Femishar dismissed the concept of everyone taking turns at digging the three meter deep, ten meter long horizontal trenches that would give the archaeologists their first real look at the layers of history that lay beneath the site, he had even punished the few who had tried to help dig the trenches, demoting their status, and assigning them to the most menial of tasks possible on this expedition.

It hadn't taken more than a few times before the students grasped the obvious message: the physical labor was to be left to the humans.

It was less obvious, however, that they were accepting the second, less blatant point: that somehow, this was the only work for which the humans were suited.

After all, Picard thought with a smile to himself, it hadn't stopped any of the other archaeologists from approaching Andile at every free moment, asking her about anything and everything, trying to coax her into talking with them – and perhaps into something more, he admitted, recognizing the expressions in their eyes from his own misspent youth.

Not that what she did with the students was his concern, he added; if she wanted to... well, whatever... with them, that was entirely their business. After all, they were all consenting adults, he thought – and whatever agreements he had made with Femishar regarding his own conduct didn't apply to her.

It was none of his business that she had opted to stay with the students after each night's dinner, talking animatedly with them even as he bid them all a good night, nor was it his concern that she had failed to return to their tent until the small hours of the last three mornings, nor that she had been so exhausted when she did return that she had been incapable of doing anything more than simply falling into bed, still dressed, still covered with the mud and clay that now marked every surface of the dig site.

It was not his business – and he understood, he reminded himself; He understood only too well how lonely life could be – and how welcome attention and companionship could be.

Excluding mine, of course, he added – but what else could I have expected? I was responsible for Data's death, responsible for every loss she had endured – and now, adding insult to injury, I've torn her away from the children she had sworn to rescue. Is it any wonder she's seeking solace somewhere – anywhere! - else?

And if that solace has turned into something more... intimate, then who the hell am I to judge her? he added harshly.

No one, he told himself.

Then again, the logistics of any type of liaison would have been problematic at best, Picard added; after only two days, there wasn't a surface at the dig site that was marked, streaked or covered by the thick grey-brown clay. The idea of engaging in any sort of physical passion in such a mess was hardly appealing, no matter how lonely one might be.

Not that he couldn't appreciate the idea of a romp in the mud, he conceded; there had been times and places – and a willing partner – when just such an activity had been a delightful afternoon's diversion... but there had always been a shower or bath to follow that had cleansed them both of the day's debris.

Not here, though, he thought, still amazed – and appalled – at the oversight. Oh, there was a facility for food preparation, for sanitary needs, for washing dishes – but for bathing, for washing their mud-covered clothes? No; somehow the Kvesterian had missed that item.

As had I, Picard conceded, troubled by his lack of conscientiousness at the error – and doubly troubled that no one else had caught the mistake either. Admittedly, having Data returned to them, quickly followed by Dee's appearance, had thrown them all – but Will's crew were experienced in dealing with the unexpected; someone – including me, he added, should have caught the mistake.

Or perhaps Femishar hadn't caught the error because he didn't see it as a potential problem. This was a rain forest after all – and one thing rain forests had in abundance was water. Maybe he had thought they would simply need do nothing more than stand in one of the frequent downpours that the weather satellites had documented in this region.

But at this time of year that water was held up by the thick layers of the forest canopy; despite the gentle storms that struck the leaves high in the trees every night and day, very little of it made its way to the ground. Here and there thin rivulets formed, teasing them with the rivers that would form when the rainy season hit in full force, but for now, it simply reminded them all of what they did not, and could not have.

Admittedly, he added, even if there had been rainfall enough for bathing, the high humidity of the site kept anything from drying properly; even within the tent he shared with Andile, the environmental dehumdifiers were hard pressed to reduce the moisture in the air to a tolerable level; expecting their clothing to dry completely was out of the question.

And if it couldn't dry, Picard had realized after the first day, why bother to even try to wash it or themselves?

Within a day, their clothes, their bodies, even the interior of their tent were all heavily streaked with the pale grey-brown mud of the dig site; within two days, everything seemed to have turned the same dull shade as the Kvesterians found themselves facing the same predicament. Within three days, they began to feel themselves a part of the forest, the brown and grey of the dirt making their camouflaging their appearance, until they were all be unnoticeable from the earth in which they worked.

Still, there was a saving grace in the persistent humidity of the dig site: the same high humidity that kept everything and everyone wet and miserable also kept the heavy mud from drying on their skin.

We're filthy, we stink – but at least we don't itch, Picard mused.

Hearing a grunt of effort from behind him, Picard stopped his efforts for a moment, turning to watch as Andile hefted a pickaxe that weighed at least a third of her body weight, and slammed it into the ground. It bit deeply into the heavy soil; she grunted again as she tried to free the heavy instrument, the sweat- and rain-soaked shirt that clung to her body displaying the muscles in her arms and back bunching as she maneuvered it loose.

For a moment, he watched her, watched as the ground fought her, the wet soil sucking at the axe, fighting to keep her from freeing it, then let go with a soft, sucking sound; watched as the muscles in her arms tightened and relaxed with every effort, displaying themselves against the clinging fabric of her sodden shirt - then watched as she grimaced, then kicked at the clods of clay that clung to the metal. Raising the pickaxe again, she let the gravity and the weight of the tool pull it toward its target - only to jump back as the pickaxe danced off a rock that lay just below the surface.

Growling at the presence of yet another stone, she dropped to her knees, ferreting through the muddy soil with her fingers, feeling out the perimeter of the rock, then wedged her fingers into the clay.

The rock, however, had other ideas; despite Andile's best efforts to pry the boulder out of its viscous home, it refused to be budged.

Picard watched as she strained against the stone, wondering whether she – the unstoppable force – or the boulder – the seemingly immovable object – would win this battle.

_You could help_, she grumbled in his mind a few moments later.

_I didn't want to spoil your fun,_ he countered.

She grumbled something that he recognized as a crude Klingon profanity regarding a body part that humans didn't possess and an act that was anatomically impossible even if he did possess the organ - then shifted to one side, making room for him.

He knelt down beside her in the muddy water that filled the bottom of the trench and began to work at the stone.

They worked at the stone for some time, using their fingers to outline the perimeter then gouge away the clay that held it locked in place.

Even as they worked, though, Picard felt the stone being pulled back into the clay as water seeped into the trench, submerging the rock and slowly filling the cavity.

"The other trenches are already filled in," Andile informed him.

He glanced up, startled. Four years ago, he had grown used to having the touch of her mind in his; now, it was foreign, unfamiliar – and vaguely unsettling.

Had she heard what he had been thinking a few minutes ago? He asked himself, silently reviewing his thoughts, wondering how much she had 'heard', wondering whether his thoughts about her relations with the Kvesterian students had stung at her – then wondering if it was possible for those same thoughts to have driven the old friends any further apart then they already were?

She glanced up at him – and sighed. "No, I'm not reading your thoughts," she informed him.

"Then how...?"

She smiled. "You forget, Admiral, that I used to be quite the adept at reading body language – though I wouldn't have to be too adept to figure out what you were thinking this time," she added. "You keep putting your hand in the same place and noting where the water level is. It doesn't take a genius to realize that you're concerned about the trenches filling."

He looked at her, then gave a nod of acknowledgement. "We're going to have to dream up some sort of pump to get the water out before the Kvesterians can analyze the depository layers," he said.

She looked up at him. "Why?" she asked, puzzled.

"Dee," he replied, confused by her protestation, "they can't study the site if it's underwater," he countered.

She gave a soft laugh. "Yes, I know that – but my question is: why do _we_ have to devise a pump? Why not give them a bucket and tell them to bail it out for themselves?" she answered.

"Because..." he began.

"Because you're Starfleet – and Starfleet is always there to solve other people's problems," she said in a sing-song tone, as if reciting some ancient mantra that had been drilled into her in her Academy days.

He looked at her, disapprovingly. "That's not fair," he reproved her. "It has never been the policy of Starfleet to simply jump in and use out technology to 'rescue' other peoples and cultures; indeed, that's what the Prime Directive is all about! But in a case like this, when a member society has an issue, and we have the ability to resolve it..."

"...we're under some sort of compunction to do so?" she countered. "You know, Jean-Luc, it's not always a healthy thing to solve other people's problems for them – especially when they haven't asked for help," she said. "People – and cultures and worlds – grow and develop by facing adversity and finding solutions for themselves, rather than accepting handouts from those who already found answers for themselves – and occasionally asking for help. Yes, it can be hard for them – but save them too often, too freely, and they come to expect it," she said. "Do it often enough, and they expect they won't have to do it for themselves," she added.

He stopped in his efforts to loosen the rock and looked up at her. "You resent that Femishar has us digging the trenches."

She met his gaze, then pulled her hands away from the rock as well. "No," she protested, then amended, "and yes. I resent that he thinks that the work that is beneath him isn't beneath us. I resent that he has eight able-bodied people who could have worked with us and had this part of the dig finished days ago – and instead have had us working our butts off while they walk around doing the remote ground scans. I resent that I have blisters on my blisters..."

"You could wear your gloves," he reminded her, inclining his head at the discarded hand apparel that lay at the side of the trench.

"That's not the issue, Jean-Luc," she countered. "The issue is he's using us; more to the point, he's using you! He used your name and your clout to get Starfleet to haul his half-assed dig out to the farthest reaches, but isn't granting you an iota of respect for your work in the field now that we're here – and I do resent that. I resent that he treats us like second-class citizens," she said, her voice beginning to rise, "and I resent the fact that you're just accepting it. By the gods, Jean-Luc, what's happened to you?" she asked. "You never would have taken this shit from anyone before – but here you are, just lying down and letting Femishar walk all over you!"

He looked at her, surprised – and then angry – and then bemused. "Don't hold back, Dee," he said. "Tell me what you really think."

But his jocular tone did nothing to allay her anger. "This dig is a travesty, Picard," she growled. "It's a joke, a sham... there's nothing here to indicate that this site was ever part of the Romulan Diaspora..."

"The pottery shards that Professor Femishar presented to the archaeology council were distinctly Romulan," he reminded her.

"No question – but Femishar's lack of due diligence puts the provenance in question!" she reminded him. "Not to mention: if the Romulans had the technology to get here, why are they firing clay pots?"

"Disasters happen," he countered.

"Agreed – but what are the odds that if there was a disaster that reduced the original landing party to the level of survival we're seeing here, that one of those survivors just happened to be able to fire pots that virtually identical to pre-Diaspora pottery? And how often do cultures surviving in the rain forest find the resources to build kilns?" she added. "It's not like there's a lot of dry firewood around here – certainly not enough to be able to fire something that's going to last ten thousand years," she explained.

"People do have unique talents," he remarked, "And climates do change," he reminded her.

Andile rolled her eyes. "Gods, preserve me," she muttered, then looked at him. "Fine. They got here, ran into a disaster that kept them from accessing their technology but still managed to make a living site and one of their people who just happened to survive also just happened to have studied and practiced the ancient techniques of firing pots and managed to build a kiln and fuel it with local plants before it turned into a rainforest. So why hasn't there been any sign of charcoal layers in the trenches we've dug?" she countered. "In fact, why hasn't there been any sign of life here – aside from Femishar's vaunted pottery shards and a few rock formations that might – but only might - be stone foundations for buildings. Hell, for that matter, where's the fucking ship, Picard? Even if the damned thing crashed, there should be massive traces of..." Her voice trailed off as realization dawned, and she looked up at the Starfleet admiral with a rapidly widening grin.

"Fuck," she said approvingly.

He inclined his head a fraction of an inch, accepting her praise.

"Femishar's got the right idea..." she murmured.

"But the wrong place," he finished.

"The gravitic anomaly you found..."

"Could well have been generated by the remains of a starship that landed here millennia ago and was cannibalized to be used as the foundation of a city," he agreed with a mischievous

"Damn," she said admiringly. "And you got Femishar to bring you right to it without his even realizing," she concluded.

"Not 'right to it'," he replied. "We're a good hundred kilometers away – a week's travel through rainforest, over a mountain ridge and across a desert," he reminded her. "And I was upfront with him about my reasons for wanting to join this expedition; he's known why I've wanted to join the dig since the beginning," Picard added.

"He was just so full of himself that he couldn't accept that he could be wrong," Andile concluded – then gave Picard a wary look. "You didn't, by any chance, just happen to leave those original shards here for Femishar to find, did you?" she asked. "To make him look all the more the ass while you garner the fame and glory of finding a site that most archaeologists only dream of?"

The startled look on Picard's face was more than enough to answer her question – but even so, he indignantly said, "Never! I would never intentionally harm the reputation or credibility of another researcher by doing something like that!"

"By the gods, Picard, relax!" she replied curtly then shook her head. "I was just yanking your chain!" she grumbled. "I know you'd never salt someone else's dig. You're too upstanding to reduce yourself to something like that. Gods! What happened to your sense of humor? Did Beverly dumping you hit you so hard that you can't take a joke anymore?" she asked bitterly – then immediately regretted as a look of devastation crossed his face.

It lingered there but a moment, then faded – but the man it left behind was a quieter, more somber soul.

"I'm sorry, Jean-Luc," she began reaching for his hand – but quickly he waved it – or them – off.

"No need," he informed her quietly. "But, for the record, Beverly didn't 'dump' me. There was never a formal end to it; it simply... didn't happen."

"I'm sorry," Andile repeated.

"As I said, no need. We tried... Indeed, Beverly was supposed to join me on this dig," he continued, "but at the last moment, she had to back out. A conflict with her work..." His voice faded for a moment as the memory of her canceling played through his mind – followed by the memory of dawning realization of the truth.

His voice grew quieter. "It was then that I finally began to realize that our life paths were simply going in two different directions. Perhaps they always were, and we were simply trying to force them to go in a direction that wasn't meant for either of us," he added – then managed a wan smile. "Whatever the reason, I think we're both better off as we are now. Friends – good friends – but that's all," he said.

Andile looked at her friend, studying his expression carefully – then sighed. "Jean-Luc," she said quietly, thoughtfully, tenderly, and softly murmured, "that's a load of shit if ever I heard one. Self-deprecating, self-pitying crap. And if your feeling sorry for yourself is the reason we're staying here, working our butts off while Femishar and his group barely move a muscle..."

"One, I am not feeling sorry for myself," Picard interrupted petulantly.

"Good," she said. "I hate it when you play the martyr."

He looked at her in astonishment. "Me?"

She rolled her eyes up in exasperation, then sighed and shook her head. "You were saying?"

"That I am not feeling sorry for myself – and even if I was, that is not the reason we're staying here. We're staying here because despite months of carefully planning, this is the worst organized, worst equipped expedition I have ever seen – and I hold myself at least partly to blame. As the Federation representative, I was responsible for overseeing the preparations and ensuring they met the archaeology council's requirements. I thought I had reviewed and double checked everything as best I could – and yet here we are," he said unhappily, uncomfortably – and with the nagging thought that perhaps his 'best' was no longer good enough.

I'm getting older, he reminded himself; perhaps... no, not perhaps, he corrected himself, I'm simply not the man, the person I once was.

"To whatever extent this is my error, I have a responsibility to ensure that nothing happens to these people or this expedition. If that means staying here longer than planned, then I'll do so.

"And sacrifice your own work?" Andile questioned.

"If need be; I'll not leave Femishar's site to fall apart just because I want to work on my own theories of what happened here," he said resolvedly.

Andile studied him for a moment – then glanced in the direction of the main camp and the Kvesterians who were working there, and considered for several minutes before she looked back at him.

"The Klingons are wrong," she said at long last, "and so are humans."

He raised a brow in question.

"Honor sucks," she continued. "Duty sucks. It kills people everyday, when they sacrifice themselves because it's the honorable thing to do; Klingons go to war over honor, humans kill themselves in tasks that no sane man would attempt because honor requires it, and duty demands; I almost died because of it... Data did die because of it."

Picard opened his mouth to protest, but she continued, ignoring him.

"And you're getting fucked because of it," she announced.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, his prior protestations lost in her exclamation.

"Femishar's fucking you over," Andile announced. "He's playing you. He's using you, making you feel to blame for what's gone wrong with this dig so far – when the truth is... He's scared," she said firmly, knowing her assessment of the alien was absolutely accurate. "I can feel it from here. He's scared that this site isn't panning out the way he thought it would – there aren't enough artifacts, and the preliminary assessment of the stratum doesn't support his original supposition.

"Jean-Luc, he's scared that he's wrong and even more scared that you're right – and that if you go off on your dig, you're going to find what he's looking for. And he's doing everything in his power to make damned sure that you don't go... up to and including using your reputation, your honor, your sense of duty to make you stay here, working this site for as long as possible – up until the moment the Enterprise return, if he can do so – and keeping you the hell away from the other site until he has a chance to explore it first."

Picard shook his head; Femishar was not a scrupulous being, but he would never use someone...

He stopped in mid-thought, shaking his head. What the devil am I thinking? He asked himself. Of course Femishar would use me. He already has – to secure the Archaeology Council's support of the expedition, to requisition the Enterprise to transport the equipment to the site...

And even if time is beginning to take its toll on me, Deanna and Geordi would have caught any oversights in equipment and supplies, he reminded himself.

He looked back at his friend. "So he used me," he conceded. "He must have thought he might need some ace in the hold, something he could use to manipulate me into staying on – and away from your site - if this place didn't turn out to be what he thought it would be. So he selected a few pieces of important – but not essential equipment and hid them – and left me to feel responsible."

"It's that Starfleet training," Andile agreed with a grin. "Honor, duty... guilt."

"So where the devil is the missing equipment?" he asked her.

"I don't know," she admitted. "All I can guess is that he picked a few select items that they could live without and hid them someplace while we were working on setting up the camp that first day," she surmised. "With all this vegetation, you can be right on top of something and not see it – and while I'm a damned good telepath, inanimate objects aren't noted for their ability to project thoughts. You want me to read Femishar's mind?" she asked.

Picard considered – but humiliating the archaeologist openly would not resolve their problem.

"No; that might only make the situation worse," he said – then looked at her questioningly. "But... Reputations can be a good thing as well, Dee; are you still half the engineer you were on my Enterprise?" he asked.

She glared at him indignantly. "Gods, Picard; I managed to hold a starship together in the middle of the Baronian minefield – after it had been hit. What do you think?"

He grinned. "I think that an engineer with that type of reputation should be able to cobble together some replacement equipment that would allow our co-workers to continue their exploration... in decent, albeit not exemplary conditions," he said.

She studied him for a moment – then let out a low whistle. "Ooh, no wonder you were the bane of the diplomatic corps; I'd hate to meet you across a negotiating table."

"Let's just say that I'd like to give Femishar no legitimate reason to have us stay on – but I'm not about to let him gain an advantage from your work."

"My work?" she objected.

"You're the engineer," he reminded her.

"And you're the one who insisted I had to take a vacation!"

Picard inclined his head once more, conceding the point – and not truly objecting. From his days at the Academy until his last day on the Enterprise, he had always enjoyed his labors in engineering – and those few opportunities he had joined efforts with the friend now beside him had only served to remind him of how much he enjoyed that work... and her company. "_Our_ work, then," he agreed.

She considered – then held out a hand. "Deal," she announced.

He took it – then instantly hesitated, remembering her remarks about the blisters.

Seeing his hesitation, sensing the reason behind it, she instantly turned her hand over, and displayed the unmarked flesh. "I heal fast – remember?" she said.

He did remember – but even so, the sight of the unmarked flesh still startled him, flesh that only a few minutes before had left trails of blood on the handle of the pickaxe she had used.

Nonetheless, he took the proffered hand – but gently, clasping it warmly rather than firmly, and gave it a single shake.

"Deal."

They grinned at each other, then Andile asked. "Shower first – or pumps for the trenches?"

"Pumps. We want to give Femishar no excuses to abandon this site – and flooded trenches would be a sufficient excuse," he explained.

"He could just say he was wrong about the significance of this site and move on," she reminded him.

Picard shook his head. "He can't. Admitting error is social and political suicide on Kvestar. Femishar can't admit he was wrong, or he'll loose his social standing, his status with the Kvesterian archaeology council - and quite likely his position at the university."

Andile nodded in understanding. "But if the trenches were flooded, well, then there was nothing he could do and he could justify moving on," she said – then looked at him curiously. "Do you think that's why he was stalling back on the Enterprise? Trying to delay the landing until the rainy season was almost here – just in case he was wrong?"

"I doubt it," he replied. "Not that manipulation of that sort is beyond Femishar, but I sincerely doubt he would have pushed for his site to be the primary landing location if he had any real doubts. No; I'm convinced he was convinced he was right about the site – until we started digging..."

"... and not finding what he wanted to find," she agreed. "But if he thought he was right in the first place, why bother hiding the equipment?"

"Habit, perhaps," Picard conjectured. "He may have had to hedge bets in the past – or maybe that is just another cultural practice on Kvestar – like hiding the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle so you can be sure to be the person who 'finishes' it," he said.

Andile looked at him in genuine outrage. "That's despicable! Who would do something like that?" she asked.

A pink glow highlighted Picard's cheeks. "Ummm... Well, children have been known to do things like that..." he muttered.

She watched the glow turn to a full-on blush, then grinned, temptation pressing at her; the man had so few failings, so few foibles that poking at those he did have – or had once, long ago - was almost irresistible.

Almost.

"Oh, children," she said, dismissing her retort – and the unspoken gibe that had almost followed it. "That's different. So pumps first – then showers, right? Anything else?"

Picard shook his head, relieved that she hadn't pressed the issue. "Nothing else that I'm aware of – but perhaps you could ask your friends in the group; they may have more insight into Femishar's potential areas of complaint," he said – but Andile couldn't miss the slight hint of resentment in his voice.

For a moment, she stared at him, surprised by the hint of accusation in his tone, not understanding it – then nodded. "I will. In the interim, let's finish this trench, get the pumps going – and get that shower set up. I'm aching to get this mud off me!" she added enthusiastically.

Picard gave her a quick glance of caution. "That might be a problem, Dee; Femishar will object to the shower having been used by a human."

She grinned back. "We'll just say we had to test the water flow regulators to ensure they worked properly. That we happened to get clean was simply a by-product of our testing," she added innocently. "Indeed, duty demands we check them thoroughly! After all, we wouldn't want to put up the showers, leave – then find they weren't working, now would we?" she asked him in a too-sweet voice, batting her long lashes over eyes that glinted with Machiavellian cunning.

He raised a brow. "You sound like Will Riker when you say that," he said dryly.

"Oh, Jean-Luc, you wound me!" she countered petulantly. "After all, I was in Starfleet decades before Will was even born! If Will's got larceny in his heart and duplicity in his soul, he got it from me – not the other way around! Now, let's get this trench finished – and get the hell out of here! We've got a site to explore!"


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Beverly lifted her hands from the control board, displaying their bare surfaces in unconscious surrender to the invisible powers that wanted her ship.

"Relinquishing control of the Fujiwara," Beverly informed the shuttlebay deck officer. "I'm in your hands now, Enterprise" she added, the lightest hint of trepidation in her voice.

She could almost hear the smile in the voice that called back to her. "Not to worry, Commander Crusher," the voice soothed. "We'll bring you in, safe and sound."

"You've done this before?" she asked, not yet ready to give up her apprehension. After all, docking a captain's yacht in its designed port at the base of a Sovereign-class starship was one thing: Beverly had docked the Calypso a dozen times when she had served on the Enterprise. Unfortunately, that wasn't an option today; the Calypso already occupied its proper position on the underside of the Enterprise's hull – and bringing the large vessel into the relatively tiny opening of the shuttlecraft dock required a level of skill she didn't feel she possessed.

At least not after five days of too little sleep and far too much coffee – and certainly not when neither ship was hers.

It would be a hell of a thank you to wreck the Fujiwara - and an even nastier greeting to wreck the Enterprise at the same time, she mused – regardless of who did the wrecking, she added a moment later, when the officer failed to answer her.

"You have done this before - right?" she repeated.

"There's a first time for everything," the man replied, a hint of stress in his own voice.

"Lieutenant..." she began warily.

"Don't worry, Beverly," a third – and very familiar - voice interjected. "Lieutenant Shields is the best there is," Will Riker assured her. "If anyone can do this..."

Beverly felt an unwelcome tightening in her chest. "Will..."

A short laugh answered her. "Just teasing you, Beverly. Lt. Shields has done this a hundred times. Just relax and enjoy the ride; we'll have you home in just a few minutes," he said.

Beverly clenched her teeth, not appreciating Will's sense of humor, the fact that she had played equally cruel pranks on the former first officer not withstanding.

Five minutes later, she felt the ship settle to the surface of the starship; she waited until the shuttlebay officer signaled that the ship was fully docked and the atmosphere restored, tabbed the control to open the hatch, and stormed toward the door, ready to read Will Riker the riot act.

And stopped short as she saw a shorter, heavier woman racing toward her.

"Beverly!" Deanna exclaimed as she hurried from the side of her husband toward her friend.

Her anger at Will forgotten at the sight of the Betazoid, she reached out, hugging the woman – or at least, trying to hug her as the woman's ample belly preventing the embrace from getting too close.

"It's good to see you, Deanna," Beverly replied, holding her friend close for a long moment – then pulling back, studying the slightly worn – but nevertheless beaming – face, then looking down at her swollen abdomen. "Both of you," she added when she looked back at Deanna. "He's getting big, isn't he?"

"Yes, she is," Deanna corrected.

Beverly smiled, "Still hoping for a girl? Has Alyssa run a scan?"

"Yes, but she's sworn to secrecy. Will and I want to be surprised," Deanna replied. "As much as I'm hoping for a girl, at this moment, I'm mostly hoping for soon. If I get any bigger, I'm going to have my own set of spatial coordinates," she sighed.

"I know it doesn't feel that way, but you're not that big," Beverly consoled her. "If it helps, I remember feeling the same way with Wesley when I was five months along."

"But it got better with time?" Deanna asked hopefully.

Beverly met her friend's eyes with compassion, wishing she could reassure the new mother-to-be – but their friendship merited honesty. "No," she admitted.

"Thanks," Deanna sighed unhappily.

"But in a few weeks, you'll realize that you really aren't that big," Beverly added. "You're just changing in ways you've never experienced, and you're not used to it."

"Except I have been pregnant before," she reminded her friend.

Beverly nodded thoughtfully, though whether Deanna's 'conception' and delivery of the alien life form could really be considered a true pregnancy was highly debatable. Certainly the pregnancy had run through all the same stages as a normal Terran-Betazoid pregnancy would do – but in a matter of days, not months.

"That wasn't quite the same, Deanna," Beverly demurred. "By the time you came to grips with the concept of being pregnant, you were delivering your son," she pointed out.

Your son - who wasn't your son, she added silently – although the child had left the same indelible mark on the Betazoid's heart as Wesley had left on hers.

As Jean-Luc's children had left on him, a voice reminded her.

Jean-Luc, she sighed silently; it always comes back to you, doesn't it? To you - but not to you and me, she added glumly.

"But I will get used to it?" Deanna said.

Beverly didn't reply.

"Enterprise to Crusher," Deanna sang softly.

"What?!" Beverly said, startled back to the present by her friend's voice. "Oh, I'm sorry; I guess I drifted away for a moment. What were you asking?"

"I was asking if I'd get used to being the size of a runabout," Deanna repeated.

"No," Beverly conceded again. "By the time you do 'get used to it', you'll be having the baby," she said.

"You're a big help," the Betazoid sighed.

Beverly smiled, then hugged her friend once more. "Just be happy that I've decided not to keep your mind off of your troubles by killing your husband," she said.

Deanna rolled her eyes up then shook her head. "He's the captain of the flagship of the Federation – and he still can't resist playing practical jokes," she murmured.

"He should remember I'm still the head of Starfleet Medical – and there's nothing to stop me from introducing a policy of strict diet and exercise requirements for all high ranking officers," Beverly countered.

"You wouldn't!" Deanna replied, aghast – and amused.

"Wouldn't what?" a deep voice interjected.

"Get revenge for that little stunt of yours, Will Riker," Beverly chided the approaching man harshly.

He looked at her with an expression of shock. "Me? What did I do?"

Beverly sighed, shook her head – then held out her arms to her old friend, accepting a welcoming hug from the big man in return.

"Welcome home, Beverly," he said quietly, warmly.

Home.

The word struck at her with surprising force, tearing at her heart, reminding her of the importance of this place – and the importance of the people who once lived here with her.

Home.

Tears stung her eyes, and she tightened her grasp around the large man. "Thank you, Will," she answered softly – then pulled away, touched away the tears that threatened, and slapped at his arm. "You and your practical jokes," she said. "I was on that ship for five days trying to catch up to you – and when I finally reached you, you had me thinking that those five days might be the last ones I had!" she complained.

He grinned, refusing to show or feel any repentance for the joke. "Call it payback for a few of the tricks you played on me," he countered. "But don't think that for an instant we're even; I haven't forgotten what you did with those Ferengi replicators," he reminded her.

Beverly's eyes widened in confusion – then she managed a chagrinned smile as the memory returned. "I had forgotten that one," she said, "but how was I to know that you two would decide to go swimming?" she asked. "At least you were on Risa – and public nudity is not a big concern there... unless, of course, you had other concerns. Maybe some... small concerns?" she suggested.

Will looked at her indignantly – then turned to his wife for support, only to see her quickly raise her hands in protest. "Don't look at me, Will; these pranks are between the two of you – and I'm staying out of it," she insisted – then added softly, "but the water _was_ rather cold that day."

"Hey!" Will protested as Deanna and Beverly broke into laughter – then watched as Deanna took Beverly's arm and led her away from the shuttlecraft bay – but not before Beverly took a moment to step over to the deck officer and thank him.

"My pleasure, Commander," he replied. "We'll secure the Fujiwara until you're ready to depart," he added – then glanced at Riker, the unasked question in his eyes.

"The Commander will be with us indefinitely," Will informed the man – then, growing serious, took Beverly's arm and guided her and Deanna from the room.

"So tell me about these two girls," Beverly asked.

"Dr. Ogawa will update you as soon as you're ready," Will informed her.

"Then let's go now," Beverly said. "If Alyssa's assessment was accurate, time may be of the essence."

Will nodded – but to Beverly's surprise, instead of turning to the right as they left the shuttlecraft bay, he turned to the left.

"Will... Sickbay is this way," she reminded him.

"They're not in Sickbay," he countered. "They're on the holodeck."

"The girls are on the holodeck?" Beverly echoed, astounded.

"Yes," Will answered. "Biji set up an environment there for all of the children and S'bey..."

"They're on a holodeck instead under Alyssa's care in Sickbay?" she repeated. What the hell kind of Sickbay was Alyssa running? she asked herself angrily.

"We didn't have a choice. S'bey insisted," Will explained.

"S'bey?" Beverly interrupted.

"Their... guardian," Deanna said. "He wouldn't permit the two girls to be separated from the others."

"_He_ 'wouldn't permit' ?" the physician echoed. "I thought you told me Biji was in charge of these children. And what about Alyssa? Doesn't her medical judgment apply?"

"S'bey is Biji's... assistant," Deanna explained. "Technically, Biji is their guardian; in her absence, she gave him final say over what happens to them."

"Over that of a trained medical professional?"

The two officers looked from one to the other, then fell silent.

Beverly watched the two for a moment, then spoke warily. "All right. What aren't you telling me?"

Deanna looked at Will, then faced Beverly. "It gets worse. Beverly, S'bey is rather... young," she said.

"He's thirteen," Will clarified.

"Or maybe fourteen," Deanna offered. "No one really knows about these children," she admitted.

"These children? He's one of them? The Chiemma? And he's the one making decisions about the other children?" she said incredulously.

"First, he isn't one of them," Deanna said. "Well, he is one of the Chiemma," she amended, "but from one of Biji's earlier visits."

"Earlier visits? Dear God, she's gone back to Cardassia more than once?!" Beverly exclaimed.

Will nodded. "Yes – though when or how often, we don't know. She was less than forthcoming about the details," he said.

Well, that's a surprise, Beverly growled to herself. Biji had been the most recalcitrant patient she had ever known, holding back every detail of her medical and personal life – even when it had threatened her own survival. Why anyone would expect her to be any different about any other aspect of her life was beyond her.

"The less we know, the less we can reveal," Deanna explained. "All we know for sure is that she's been helping the Chiemma escape from Cardassia – but how many and to where, we don't know."

"And this... S'bey... does know?"

"Yes – but he won't tell us," Will explained.

Beverly stared from one Starfleet officer to the other – then shook her head. "What you're telling me is that a fourteen year old is in charge of the lives and safety of... how many children? Other children?" she amended.

"Thirty," Deanna said, quickly adding, "soon to be thirty-two."

"If the two fetuses survive to be born," Beverly interrupted angrily. "But Alyssa – and you two – feel they are in better hands outside of Sickbay, being watched over by a fourteen-year-old?"

"That's not fair, Beverly" Deanna protested.

"Perhaps not, but it sounds accurate," the physician protested.

"Beverly... Dr. Crusher," Will said soberly, "Dr. Ogawa felt that their prolonged separation of the two young women from the others would be more stressful than any benefit that could be gained by keeping them in Sickbay," Will furthered. "She said that until you arrived, there was nothing further that she could do for them.

"Furthermore, S'bey may be a minor in our eyes, but Biji did leave him in charge – and our agreement with her was that we would honor and respect his decisions to act on her behalf; indeed, that was the only way she would agree to leave them."

"So she could take a vacation," Beverly offered, "leaving two critically ill, pregnant girls behind."

Deanna looked at her friend soberly. "That's not fair, Beverly. Biji didn't know how serious the situation was; she never would have left if Alyssa had told her."

"So why didn't Alyssa tell her?" Beverly argued. "They have a right to the bet care possible – and that means decision from someone who can make those choices responsibly! Not a child who has no experience and no knowledge about the risks involved!" she raged.

"Beverly..." Will began, but Deanna looked to her husband, silently asking his forbearance – and for a moment of privacy.

He glared at the physician – then yielded to his wife's request and stepped away, leaving the two alone.

"Beverly, I know what this trip meant to you – and the admiral - and I'm sorry. You both have waited a long time to be together..."

"It's got nothing to do with that, Deanna..." Beverly started to protest, but the empath raised her hand to silence the doctor's protests.

"Beverly, this is me. I know what you're feeling, what you were hoping this trip could have meant for your future together. But... Biji... Biji made a mistake," she tried to explain.

"So? Everyone makes mistakes – including Beej," Beverly argued.

"Not like this," Deanna objected. "Beverly, she almost killed them all. It was sheer luck we found them when we did – and even then it was a close thing. Bev, Biji's exhausted – she's making mistakes – dangerous mistakes. Doing what she's doing – trying to rescue over a hundred thousand children..."

"Excuse me? How many children did you say?" Beverly gaped.

"Estimates of the number of children abandoned by the Cardassians before and during the war were well over two hundred thousand; from what Biji reported, at least half of those children have died," Deanna said softly. "She's trying to save as many of those that are still alive as possible."

"A hundred thousand children... dead... " Beverly whispered.

"And a hundred thousand still alive... for now," Deanna reminded her.

"And Biji's trying to save them all," Beverly murmured. "Damn her," she added with a sigh. "Doesn't she know there are groups that could help her with this? She doesn't have to go it alone!" And risk God knew what number of those survivors through her sheer pigheadedness, Beverly added bitterly.

Seeing the play of respect and anger on her friend's face, Deanna shook her head. "She's tried, Beverly - but the Cardassians won't acknowledge that the Chiemma exist, so there's no way for any organized group to act on their behalf. Tar Zumell has been trying... but even she wouldn't help Beej at first," she reminded the physician. "Biji told her what she had seen - and Zumell simply could not bring herself to admit her people had done something so heinous."

"And so two hundred thousand lives are ignored - and two hundred thousand children die," Beverly said sadly.

"Not if Biji can stop it," Deanna managed a wan smile. "It's impossible, of course - but that hasn't stopped her. But the physical and emotional toll of doing what she is doing - and not doing – is more than she can handle. We were concerned that if she didn't take a little time away, the next error might well be a fatal one."

"So maybe you can cut her a little slack?" Will interjected.

Beverly glared at him for an instant – then relented. "All right – but leaving a fourteen year old to make the health decision about two pregnant women?"

"Girls," Will corrected. "I doubt whether either of them is any older than he is."

"But he isn't dismissing their needs, Beverly. He worries over them as if their babies were his," Deanna said.

"Are they?" Beverly asked.

"No," the empath replied.

"Our young Mr. S'bey seems to prefer older women," Will said with a hint of a grin.

Puzzled, Beverly looked at him for explanation, but it was Deanna that spoke up. "Apparently S'bey tried to put the moves on Biji when he thought they weren't going to make it."

"Really," Beverly replied evenly.

Deanna nodded. "Really."

"You have to give him credit," Will added. "Most men find Biji to be rather formidable."

Formidable - and damned ugly, she added silently – then instantly chastised herself.

Andile had once been stunningly beautiful, she reminded herself – at least if the stories Jean-Luc had told her were true – but her appearance in these latter years was anything but attractive. The accident that had nearly killed her four years before they had all met had left her horribly disfigured – and while Starfleet surgeons had made some attempt to restore some semblance of an appearance, they knew she had little chance of surviving the injuries – or the near-terminal illnesses that had been a result of the damage done to her body.

The surgeons had rebuilt the outlines of a face, with little attention paid to restoring her appearance; the result had been harsh planes and angles where once there had been exquisite curves.

The same could have been said about the rest of her body, Beverly added; where once there had been a lush fullness, all that remained now were hard angles of bone, joint, sinew and muscle, due in part to the many surgeries she had endured – and due to the slow wasting of her body from illness and grief.

Events on the Enterprise, both good and cruel, had started to reverse both of those situations – but even after almost six months of care – and of the love of a good man – no one would ever dream of calling Biji beautiful.

S'bey must have been fairly certain of their approaching demise to have found Biji a desirable partner – or Cardassians must have a far different idea if what was attractive.

Or perhaps, he had been able to see past the inadequacy of her body and into the generous and loving heart that she possessed.

As had one other man, she added.

Beverly nodded. "Yes," she agreed softly – then met Deanna's eyes. "Tell me about him, Deanna."

"You mean Data?" Deanna asked.

She nodded. "Is it really him? Our Data, I mean?"

"We think so," Will said. "At least he has the same memories. Geordi was able to upload the complete data file that Data – our Data – downloaded into B-4's memory just before he... died... back into this Data – and he can verify that the files are intact. But..." His voice trailed off.

"Will?" Beverly said worriedly.

"This Data is different in some ways," Deanna completed for her husband.

"In what ways?"

"His appearance, his mannerisms... he is our Data – but different," she said vaguely. "You'll see for yourself," Deanna said, gesturing for Beverly to resume their journey.

Beverly considered as they walked, turning to face her friends only when they reached the lift. "Beej doesn't believe he's Data, does she?" she said as the doors closed behind them.

"Why do you say that?" Deanna asked.

"If she truly believed he was her Data, she wouldn't have left," she concluded.

Deanna nodded slowly. "Perhaps not. But... the man she loved died, Beverly. We don't know what that loss did to her – but we do know that some people take a long time to accept the possibility of love after such a loss," she said – rather pointedly, Beverly decided. "And the possibility of loving the same person – and facing the possibility of that same loss – can be devastating."

"So she denies he's really Data, and avoids the possibility," Beverly concluded.

"Yes," Will replied, then added, "and no."

"And what does that mean?'

"It means she knows he's Data," Will said. "Her Data."

Perplexed, Beverly stared at him.

"You'll understand in a minute," Deanna assured her.

The lift came to a halt, and the doors opened; Will gestured for the two women to precede him, then stepped out and led the way to the double doors that were situated only a few years away.

To Beverly's surprise, the doors did not automatically open, however; instead, they stayed resolutely closed until Will tapped a sequence into the control pad.

"Security concerns?"

"Let's just say we're not ready to advertise that we have thirty – soon to be thirty-two - undocumented Cardassian children on board," he conceded. "If the Cardassians wanted to use that information against the Federation, they could – for anything from forcing our hand at the negotiating table to the grounds for starting an out and out war."

Beverly looked at him, horrified. "Will, they wouldn't... would they?"

"They'd have to rewrite their social structure to accept the Chiemma back into their society – but if they had reason to do so, they would," Deanna replied.

"My greater concern is having the children volunteer the fact that a woman believed to be dead for the last four years – a woman who was being charged with treason against the Federation – was responsible for bringing them on the Enterprise," Will pointed out.

Damn! Beverly thought to herself. I had forgotten that Andile's so-called death was done to help her escape prosecution of those trumped-up charges – charges that had never been lifted even after she had 'died', she added.

No wonder Will and Deanna were trying to keep this whole incident as quiet as possible – and no wonder they couldn't get Biji off this ship fast enough.

But why the hell did Jean-Luc have to take her on his dig and risk his own life by aiding and abetting an alleged criminal?

Because he was her friend, she reminded herself soberly – and friendship must dare or it wasn't friendship.

And, she added finally, because he was Jean-Luc Picard.

"In any case, the fewer people who know they're aboard, the

better," Will concluded. "Fortunately, the whole debacle started in the middle of the night; aside from a select few on Alyssa's staff, the senior officers and the Kvesterians, almost no one knows we have these passengers aboard – and we're trying to keep it that way for as long as possible."

"Will," Beverly said quietly, "if I have to do two in-utero DNA transections on two Cardassian teen-agers, you're not going to be able to keep this quiet. It's a risky procedure, and it's going to require the full assistance of everyone in the Enterprise's Sickbay. It's one thing to be able to keep it out of the medical journals, but it's going to get entered in the logs," she reminded him.

Will looked back at her understandingly. "I know, Beverly. I'll do everything I can to keep Biji's name out of the records – but I can't, in all good conscience, permit those two girls to risk their babies just to keep Biji from facing a trial. Biji would never accept that," he reminded her.

"But it's not just Beej," Beverly reminded him. "You, Deanna, Alyssa... Jean-Luc..."

"And now you," Will reminded her. "Want to back out? There's still time."

Beverly considered for a moment – indeed, more than a moment; long enough to give Will reasons to worry.

"Beverly?"

She considered one moment longer, then shook her head. "No, Will; I reviewed the Hippocratic Oath, my oath to Starfleet, my pledge to the medical school on Caldos... I don't remember any part that says it's permissible to put myself ahead of my patients. Bear in mind I'm not keen on the idea of going to the gallows," she added quietly.

"I'm not partial to that possibility either," Will agreed. "However the girls - in fact all the children - only speak Cardassian – and a guttural dialect at that - but even if they did mention Biji by name, what they call her isn't anything that we have on record as relating to a certain lieutenant. The odds are that we should be able to get them transferred off the ship, safe and sound, with this being little more than a footnote in the history of this ship."

A faint voice in the back of Beverly's mind whispered about the best-laid plans, but she pushed the notions away, attributing them to a lack of sleep and an excess of emotions. Emotions, she added sharply, that had no place in a physician's professional demeanor. There were patients awaiting her; patients who needed her to be cool, calm, reassuring - and most of all, capable of making a decision regarding the survival of their yet-unborn children.

She drew a deep breath, then looked at Will, waiting for him to enter the code that would let them enter the holodeck.

Whatever Beverly had been expecting, it hadn't been this. Something out of her days as a girl, before the disaster at Arvada, when the notion of thirty children clustered together meant small, dark cabins of wood with beds bunked two and three levels high, excesses of energy expressed in torrent of childish laughter, too much running, too much playing - too much of everything youthful and energetic.

But there was no sign of youthful exuberance in this space, she recognized immediately. The open plain that faced her was painfully quiet, free of every sound but the faintest of voices and the soft murmurs of a distant brook.

"Where are they?" she asked her companions.

"Over this rise," Deanna replied. "Biji wanted to conceal the doorway from them so they wouldn't be alarmed every time the door opened - but at the same time she wants them to be able to see everyone who approaches the camp - so I'm afraid we have a bit of a hike ahead," she explained with a sigh.

A tired sigh, Beverly realized, and looked at her friend with professional concern. "Should you be doing this?" she asked worriedly. "It may be too hot in here for you." God knows it's too hot for me, she added, feeling the sweat starting to soak through her uniform already - and wondering if she smelled as bad as she thought she did.

Probably not, she decided; the yacht was equipped with a sonic shower, which she had used earlier that day. As a scientist and an experienced Starfleet officer, she knew that such a bath would have left her cleaner than a traditional shower would have - but sometimes knowing you were clean and feeling clean were two very different things.

As though the children would care, she chided herself; children of all races were notorious for being oblivious to scents and smells their parents would find appalling - though if they did find her offensive, she had no doubt they would let her know.

Still, she hated meeting patients for the first time when she wasn't at her professional best... but the two mothers-to-be did not be delayed by her overly developed sense of fastidiousness, she reminded herself.

"I'm fine," Deanna answered, unaware of Beverly's train of thought. "It's only a little hotter here than it would be on Betazed during the summer; I just have to go at a slower pace," she added. "You two go ahead," she said, giving her husband and friend a gentle push. "I'll be right behind you."

Will gave her a glance, love, worry, and protectiveness streaming from his soul to hers in the instant of that look - then turned back to Beverly.

"Take your time," he advised as they began to walk the hill.

"I'm fine," she countered. "After five days in that yacht, I'm enjoying the warmth," she added sincerely.

"That may be, but we're walking slowly so that the children can hear us as we approach. Cardassians have an acute sense of hearing; we move slowly so they'll know we aren't trying to hide our approach," Will explained.

"And based on the slope of this hill," Beverly panted, the exertion of the long slow climb in the dry, hot air beginning to take its toll already, "they'll have ample time to see us as well."

Will nodded silently, though, Beverly realized after a glance, he seemed not to be winded in the least.

It took a moment for her to appreciate that fact - and its cause. The Will Riker she had known - and loved - on her Enterprise had always taken care to remain physically fit - but he had also always carried more than a few extra pounds as well. The man walking beside her was leaner than that other Will Riker - still a barrel-chested man, but leaner, fitter, a bit more serious - and a bit more grey, she added, smiling at the errant streaks in his hair and beard; the man walking beside her, she decided, looked like a Starfleet captain.

He looked, she thought, a bit like Jean-Luc.

Aware of her gaze, he gave her a questioning look.

"You look good, Will," she admitted.

"It's amazing what the obscene hours and ridiculous expectations of this job will do to you," he countered.

"Still gracious at accepting compliments, I see," she replied.

He smiled at her. "From you, Beverly, one's never sure what's a compliment - and what's the set-up for the sting," he answered.

She stared back at him, surprised by the remark - surprised, and stung. "Really?" she asked.

"Really," he affirmed. "You have a sharp wit - and a sharper tongue - and you don't hesitate to use either," he reminded her.

"Oh," she said, taken aback. "I..." she started, about to apologize, then stopped herself. I owe you an apology, she thought to him silently; God, I owe everyone an apology, she added - but not here, not now; for hurting him, unintentionally - or perhaps not so unintentionally, she added - the apology would have to be sincere, heartfelt - not something mouthed while they were panting their way across a hill. For now, something else would have to suffice.

"No sting this time," she said simply. "Just an observation: You are looking good."

Will glanced at her again, hesitating to answer, waiting for the final dig to follow - but when none came, he finally replied. "Thanks."

Reaching the crest of the low hill, they stopped and studied the scene before them.

Despite her thoughts of cabins and wooded hills, there were no rigid structures on the hill below. Rather, tents made of brightly colored fabrics dotted the hill, their sides raised to admit the faint breeze while granting ample shade to the figures that sat quietly beneath them.

Too quietly, Beverly thought, unable to imagine the horrors these children had faced, unable to fathom what had driven the life and joy out of their childhood, leaving them unable to do little more than sit and stare.

To stare at them, she realized an instant later. They were watching her, watching Will, staring, suspicious, worried and wary, until one of them rose and approached the two Starfleet officers.

No, not one of them, Beverly realized. Not this mysterious S'bey to whom Andile had entrusted the fate of these children. This person was too large to be one of the children.

Too large - and a moment later, she realized as he drew closer, too familiar.

Familiar - and yet not so.

She moved toward him until they were only a few feet apart, studying every detail of his face, a face she had seen almost every day for more than fifteen years, a face she knew almost as well as her own - and yet one she had never seen before.

This face bore no trace of the too pale skin or the complexion unflawed by time and experience; this face was tinged with the pinks and browns of real flesh, marked with the lines of age and worry and joy. The hair that she had known had been perfect, uniform in color and coiffed to artificial perfection; now an errant strand, lightly darker than its companions, blew in the faint hot breeze that kept the plains from becoming stifling, then landed beside another - this one slightly lighter in color - and all slightly disorganized. And those eyes had been golden, perfect, flawless; the eyes that looked back at her shown with delight at their reunion - and with the knowledge of the sorrow of departures.

The man she remembered had been an android.

This man... this man, she thought, was a man.

If it was the man she remembered, she added.

"Data?" she asked softly. "Is it really you?"

"That appears to be a matter for discussion, Doctor, though from my perspective, my existence is as it was - although I do not know whether I would be considered the most reliable reference on this topic, considering that my memory files are limited to those which..." he began, only to be stopped by Beverly soft laugh.

"It's you," she declared quietly.

Data stared at her for a moment, then looked at Will, perplexed, then back at Beverly. "Dr. Crusher, your reaction is quite similar to that which Captain Riker and Counselor Troi displayed when they first saw me in Engineering. I presume then, that while the question of my essential being - my 'soul', so to speak - may be in doubt, my behavioral patterns have remained as they once were?" he asked. "And that those mannerisms are sufficient to reaffirm the essence of who I am in your mind? Bear in mind, Doctor, that such mannerisms can be learned and imitated."

She grinned. "Data, no one, not even Lore, could ever quite be the same as you."

"Ah," he said, considering her words, then nodded. "Thank you," he added.

"You're welcome," she countered - then reached for the man, wrapping her arms around him. "Welcome back," she said softly.

To her surprise, however, he reciprocated the grasp, tightening his grip around her enough to hold her firmly yet gently... and without a suggestion of his having to calculate the energies necessary to make the embrace without threatening the integrity of her body's musculature.

With a start she realized that Data was simply hugging her.

You're Data, she thought - but you have changed.

He loosed his grip, then turned and looked over the open field. "I am gratified to see you once again, Doctor. But our reunion must be secondary to the needs of the children. They are resting in the shelters; despite Dr. Ogawa's excellent medical care, they are still recovering from their ordeals on Cardassia," he informed her.

"And the two girls who are expecting?"

"In the tent at the water's edge; I had the ambient temperature reduced in that location and directed them to reside in that locale," he explained.

Beverly nodded, remembering how damned unpleasant being pregnant in the heat summer had been for her, and imagining it was no better for the two girls - then glance up at Data, taken aback.

"You directed them?" she asked. "I thought S'bey was in charge of the children?"

"He is. I should have clarified the issue: I directed him to have them reside there," he explained.

"You directed him..." she startled, now thoroughly bewildered.

"Indeed," Data replied simply. "S'bey is the legal guardian of the children - but Ginger gave me authority over him," he added. "He was not pleased, but he acknowledged, at her insistence, that I have a greater basis of judgment than he in these matters. If you will follow me..." he continued, turning away and moving toward the brookside tent.

But rather than follow him, Beverly found herself locked in place, astounded by the realization. "By God! She gave Data responsibility for S'bey! That means she knows he's Data," she murmured, turning to face Will. "She knows he's _her_ Data!"

"Uh-huh," Will agreed. "Knows it, accepts it, even gives him control of that which she cherishes most. She just won't openly admit it to herself or anyone else," he added.

Beverly shook her head. "The man she loves comes back against impossible odds - and she runs away so she won't have to face him - and he doesn't bother to go after her. Idiots - the both of them!"

Will looked at her askew. "Yeah," he agreed - then looked at her knowingly. "You have to wonder, though: where could they learned to behave like that?"

He grinned at her, then turned to follow the android down the hill, leaving Beverly to fume in solitary silence.


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

If a lifetime spent in Starfleet had taught him anything, Picard thought, it was that life was filled with compromises. You sacrificed something of a certain importance in order to gain something of greater importance - all while your adversary attempted the same feat. If all went well, you both came away from the negotiating table feeling satisfied, and perhaps even feeling a bit triumphant.

Occasionally, however, things did not go as well - and what you sacrificed cost more than you would gain in return.

And this compromise had cost him what he held most dear: his pride, his honor... his sense of Gallic chivalry, he admitted, while all he had gained was the loss of a single task.

It didn't help that Andile was hefting the blade with an air of ease and competence he didn't think he could match; with an easy grace and rhythm she swung the knife from side to side, cutting back the thickening layer of low growth that marked their emergence from the deep rainforest of the Kvesterian camp into the denser forests north of the encampment, and providing them both with a clearer path through the otherwise impenetrable woods.

Easier, he reminded himself, but still requiring due diligence for each step they made; while Andile may have been cutting back the leaves and thinner stems of the plants that barred their way, neither her machete nor her strength could do anything about the thicker branches and trunks that were left behind. He looked down again, stepping over a protruding root, deftly avoiding a low-lying branch - and promptly stepped into a muddy puddle.

Water, filthy and cool, sprayed his already sodden and mud-soaked pants, then dripped into his boots, where it joined the water and mud of a hundred other mis-steps into puddles and shallow streams that marked the floor of the thick forest.

He grimaced, briefly, then pushed back his annoyance; this wasn't the first time he had gotten wet and filthy, nor would it be his last, he added - then grinned to himself, his mood lightening as he realized that, perhaps, this would not be his last adventure after all.

He looked up - then found himself smiling again, enjoying the sight before him; the glint of the metal as it caught the occasional ray of light, the soft 'swoop' as it sliced through leaves and twigs, the release of a scent of something unfamiliar yet deliciously green as sap sprayed through the air, the more decided 'thunk' of the blade as it crashed into - and through - the branches and trunks of the smaller plants...

...and, he had to admit, he didn't mind watching the smooth flow of Andile's muscles moving as she worked her way forward. Powerful yet elegant, he thought - then quickly averted his eyes as she glanced back at him.

"We can always switch," she reminded him, grinning.

"No," he replied... again.

"Okay - but no complaining when we make camp tonight," she reminded him.

"Have I complained yet?" he countered.

Andile shook her head, then turned back to the work of cutting the path.

Swoop.

Swoop.

I should be the one doing the work, he chided himself silently, his mood souring despite his enjoyment of watching her work. This should be her chance to recover for the ordeals of the last four years, to rest, recuperate, rebuild her inner and outer strength - and yet she's been forced to perform hard, physical labor ever since we arrived! he protested wordlessly.

"I told you I would relinquish the machete," she reminded him, "but only if you allowed me to carry my share of the supplies."

"I offered to do so," he protested, "and the offer still holds."

"That wasn't an offer, Jean-Luc; it was an insult," she said petulantly. "I represent fifty percent of this party, so I should carry fifty percent of the gear and cut the path half the time," she reminded him. "But would you be reasonable about it? No. Gallic pride my ass; it's Gallic pig-headedness," she muttered.

She swung again, but the stroke missed its target; struck on the flat surface, a broad leaf quickly swept back, passing Andile and nearly hitting Picard. He raised an arm to block the oncoming greenery, stopping it successfully - but catching a faceful of rainwater nonetheless.

A faint sense of triumph tickled at him, and he suspected the 'missed' foliage hadn't been missed at all.

Ignoring her reprisal, he continued, "I was not being pig-headed; I was being quite reasonable," he replied evenly, exhibiting a calm he was not feeling. "You represent fifty percent of this expedition in terms of personnel, but in terms of muscle mass and strength you represent less than a quarter." And that was being generous, he added silently, looking at the diminutive woman. Her muscles might be sleek and firm, but she still weighed less than half of what he did. Expecting her to carry half of her body weight in equipment was out of the question.

More than out of the question, he added; it was demeaning. After all, she was his guest here - and one simply did not ask one's guests to serve as laborers!

"Indeed, asking you to carry a quarter of the gear was far from reasonable - a tenth would have been unreasonable! - but I was willing to allow it," he added.

"Willing to allow it? Willing to allow it?!" she snapped back, turning to glare at him. "Who the fuck do you think you are, Picard?!" she returned. "You're not a Starfleet admiral here - and even if you were, having you carry three quarters of the gear AND cut the path is far from a fair distribution of the work load," she grumbled. "So if we can't be fifty-fifty the reasonable way, we'll do it the unreasonable way: you carry the packs and I cut the path," she reminded him.

Which was equally unreasonable, he protested silently; cutting through the dense undergrowth of this tropical rainforest was grueling work - and while the sight of her working had certain charms, he thought, he knew it was exhausting as well.

Not that she would admit it, he added... but if she won't, I won't, he countered wordlessly, trying to ignore the throbbing in his shoulders and back. Despite his protests, he thought, it has been some time since I've carried a sixty-kilo pack for this many kilometers.

And at least as many to follow, he reminded himself.

He'd been checking the padd throughout the last few hours, determined to reach the halfway point of their trek before making camp for the night; now that they were finally at the point in their walk, he'd begun to search for a suitable resting spot - but the constant rains and thick undergrowth were unrelenting.

As they had been the night before, he reminded himself. Unlike the first night when the high, dense canopy had blunted the worst of the persistent rains, the thinner forest they were traversing now allowed more sunlight - and also more rain - to reach the forest floor. The end effect was a dense undergrowth that slowed their forward progress, kept them even wetter than at the base camp - and deprived them of any chance of a decent night's sleep, he thought.

Even the carefully constructed mounds of leaves and fronds that they had built to keep them off the wet ground had proved insufficient against the mud that sucked at their every step; by the middle of the night, the greenery had sunk into the filth, and water slowly slept into the thin blanket that served as their ground cover.

Indeed, Picard mused, I wonder how much of the weight of these packs is nothing more than mud and water that we're carrying from the previous camps?

He didn't know; to be honest, he no longer cared. Roused from their exhausted sleep by the growing dampness and oozing mud, they had hurriedly built a makeshift matt of fresh fronds, then huddled together beneath the sodden blankets, shivering against the dampness for the balance of the night, dozing as fatigue took its tool, and aching for first light and the chance to move on - hopefully to a location that, if not dry, would at least be dryer.

He caught a momentary flash of the arid heat of Cardassia blowing through the back of his mind, its blessed heat and dryness leeching away the worst of the rainforest's moisture from his spirit - if not from his body.

"Thank you," he murmured softly, knowing the source of the sensation.

"You're welcome," she replied. "But it's not a substitute for getting dry, Picard," she reminded him. "A couple more days of this and we're not going to be able to walk," she added.

He nodded, understanding all too well.

What was the old military axiom? "An army marches on its stomach"? he asked himself silently. No, he countered, the truth was that an army marches on its feet - and issues of trenchfoot, fungi and parasites, ill-made boots or those designed for their appearance rather than the practicality of weather or the conditions of a campaign had decided as many wars as had the strategy of its leaders.

The latter wasn't an issue here, Picard knew; there were no parasites or fungi that affected humans on this planet; their boots were perfectly fitted by the ship's computers and the provisioning replicators that manufactured them followed those details exactly; they were as waterproof as modern technology permitted; their feet were coated every night and morning with proven moisture-blocking ointments as directed by Alyssa Ogawa - they even changed into dry socks - well, drier socks, Picard thought, suspecting nothing on this planet was ever fully dry - every few hours... and still their feet were wet and getting wetter.

And getting more and more painful as the thick tissues on their soles slowly absorbed the rainwater, swelled and folded in upon themselves, he added. In a bathtub, the effect was amusing: feet and hands wrinkling like prunes, he thought to himself, remembering how the presence of the wrinkles had always been his mother's cue to remove him from the giant claw-footed tub that had filled the bathroom he and Robert had shared in the house in LaBarre - but here, trying to walking on the infolded tissues was anything but amusing.

"We need a fire," he told Andile - pointlessly, knowing she was as cognizant of the problem and the solution as he was.

"Agreed. You find the dry wood and I'll find a dry spot to start it," she replied.

He grinned despite himself; not only was there no dry wood to be had, but there was no place dry enough to build the fire, even if they had found the wood.

"If we had a phaser, we could dry out the ground..." he mused.

"If we had a phaser, we could have cut through this muck and been out of here yesterday," she countered, she said, panting slightly as she brought the machete down and turned to face him. "Hell, Admiral, if we're fantasizing, let's imagine having a site-to-site transporter so we wouldn't have to deal with any of this!" She set the knife down, then bent over, resting her hands on her knees as she worked to catch her breath.

"Point taken," he replied, then studied her concernedly. "I can take over for a while," he said.

"Okay," she agreed. "Give me a moment - then we can switch gear," she added.

Taken aback, Picard began, "I didn't mean that you should..."

"I know what you meant, Picard - and I've told you: it doesn't work that way," she responded. "We share - or we go on just like this."

He shook his head, not wanting this argument again. "Dee, you're my guest..." he started.

She looked at him unhappily. "Your guest? And here I was, thinking I was your friend. Gods, Picard, you're not the only one with some pride! This isn't four years ago; this isn't the Enterprise - and I'm not an invalid!" she snapped angrily. "I don't need you to save me! I don't need you to rescue me!"

Furious, she grabbed the knife, turned away, and began hacking at the plants.

Asshole! she swore at him silently, not caring whether he heard her thoughts or not. Fucking arrogant asshole! His guest! His guest, damn it! Not his equal, not his partner in this debacle - not his friend! I'm his fucking _guest_!

She slashed angrily, ineffectually, at the leaves, ignoring them as they slapped back in her face, pushing them away as she struck at the next patch of heavy growth.

His _guest_! she swore again. His gods'-cursed _guest_!

She hacked at the leaves once more, the rain and the spraying sap flying in her face, blinding her even as they diluted the tears of anger and hurt that filled her eyes.

I thought... I thought...

You thought what? she asked herself. It was four years ago! Four years! He's moved on - you've moved on! Whatever you once were - friends, fellow officers - that was then! This is now. Move on!

Her breathing rough from the anger and the exertion, she stopped, staring ahead at the overgrown plants - then turned to Picard.

"Padd," she said quietly, refusing to yield to her emotions again, extending her hand for the device.

And was surprised when something else - something warm - no, hot! - was pressed into it.

Looking down, she was surprised to see one of the self-heating food packs resting in her grip.

Glancing at the companion, she watched as he touched the control on a second pack, waited the requisite seconds, then opened the pouch.

"What?" she said quietly. "Do you assume that if I'm in a bad mood, I must be hungry?"

He met he gaze and shook his head. "No. You're usually in a bad mood, regardless of whether you've eaten or not," he replied.

She looked back at him - then managed a small smile. "Yeah, but I'm even worse when I'm hungry," she admitted. "It's one of the drawbacks to having a normal diet - you really begin to feel it when your glucose level drops. It's easier just to starve your self," she added. "It means you're foul-tempered, of course - but it's a consistent foul temper."

Easier for those around you, Picard conceded, but it was easier to make mistakes as well, he countered - but wordlessly, knowing this was not the moment to remind her that while events might force such deprivation upon her, there was no need to force them upon herself needlessly. There would be time for that confrontation - later.

Or not at all, he reminded himself; Dee was not a child, not some naïve innocent who needed help in making choices and decisions; she was ten time - no, a hundred times - older than he was, with as many more life experiences. She didn't need him to tell her what she should and should not do.

She was right: she did not need him to rescue her.

Except, of course, when she did.

This however, was not one of those times.

"I'd argue the point," he replied, "except that on more than a few occasions, Beverly has made the same observation about my behavior. However, Dee," he added with a smile, "it's not always just about you: we've been walking all day without a break - and I'm hungry."

He squeezed the pouch, forcing a small amount of the thick substance to the opening, then sniffed it tentatively.

"Jelleb paste," he said after a moment's thought. Not haute cuisine, but...

"At least it's hot cuisine," Andile concluded for him, then took a small mouthful.

Jelleb paste was many things, she thought as she worked the thick mass through her mouth; it was highly nutritious for almost every species in the Federation, offending neither palate nor digestive systems for most people, and having been made from a root vegetable, ethically agreeable to most vegetarians and omnivores - though, she admitted, there were a few species who declined to eat it because they had not killed it themselves.

It didn't mean they couldn't eat it, she added, simply that they chose not to.

Given a choice, however, it would not be one of her preferences, either.

At least, not like this, she thought, taking a second mouthful; jelleb root, in any of its forms, had a tendency to take on the flavor of whatever it was cooked with. Add some spice, and you would have a savory addition to a meal; add some fruit, and it would make a filling a nutritious sweet. Add some meat or vegetables...

She thought for a moment, then held out her hand once again. "Can I have the padd for a moment?" she asked.

Picard smiled to himself at the change in attitude that a few mouthfuls of food - and a short respite from their efforts - had brought about. He drew the small machine from the depth of his pocket and handed it over.

Thumbing it on, she watched the screen come to life, then slowly adjusted the scanner until she could see a map of the area. Frowning at the display, she touched a control, slowly pulling back on the area until she found something that met with her approval.

Rising, she stepped into the jungle around them, quickly losing herself in the overgrowth.

"Dee?" Picard called after her, a slight hint of worry building.

_Don't worry,_ she thought back at him - then fell silent once more.

For several minutes, Picard waited in silence, listening carefully for the sound of her movements in the depths of the trees, feeling the sensation of fear grow at her prolonged absence - and forcing himself not to yield to it.

Of course, he reminded himself, he had every reason to worry; Andile might be a seasoned explorer - but even the best of them had been known to encounter something unexpected, something dangerous - something deadly - and out here, there were no communicators to call for help, no transporters to move them to a place of safety - no ship to rescue them from whatever disaster befell them.

But that was the nature of being an explorer, he reminded himself; that was why he enjoyed doing this. This was why he had joined Starfleet.

But Starfleet was no longer what it once had been. Indeed, life in Starfleet had become safe, predictable, routine.

And me? he asked himself - then sighed. Am I like Starfleet: safe, routine, predictable?

It wasn't a surprise, he reminded himself as he realized the truth; we're both growing older - maturing, yes, becoming more responsible, more established, settling into ways that work for us - but perhaps also settling into ways that are simpler, easier to hold to, rather than challenging the status quo as we once did.

As I once did, he added. But no longer, he thought ruefully; I'm no longer the rebel I once thought myself to be; I've become part of the system. Worse, I enforce the system, he thought. As an ensign, a lieutenant, a commander - even as a captain, I was in the field, working, evaluating situation and trying to create real and workable solutions for the people, societies - even civilizations, he thought - and if the rules needed to be bent or broken, then they were - and damned be the consequences to me!

Now? Now I sit at a desk, reading reports, enforcing the rules I once fought against. And not because I necessarily believe in them, he

added, but because I am required to do so.

The chains of command, he thought; who would have guessed that they bind more tightly at the top than they do at the bottom?

But not here, he reminded himself: here there was chain of command, no regs or rules - and no safety; no miracles to save us from unforeseen danger; no regulations to keep us from harming ourselves - or others - through error or omission. Here, life would be what we made it - full of risk, danger - and perhaps, he added, reward.

Intellectual reward, he thought, imagining the results of his - or Femishar's - discoveries on the planet; emotional reward, he added, enjoying the enlightenment of the last few days, his discoveries about himself and the changes in his attitude toward his life - and the physical rewards, he mused, feeling the dull ache in the muscles of his back - and savoring the hours of work and effort they represented - and the freedom from the constraints that had bound him for so many, many years.

He rolled his shoulders, easing the strain of the fatigued muscles, listening to the sound of the contents shift within the bag - then realized again that it was the only sound he heard.

"Dee!" he cried out again, wondering how long he had been lost in his reverie; he glanced down, searching for the padd - then realized that she had it.

Damn it, he thought angrily; if something happens to her, then I'm in trouble as well! There's no way to the second dig site without that map the device contained - and no way back either! I'd be stuck here until the Enterprise returns - and I'd look a right fool!

"Talk about speculating ahead of the evidence," a voice interrupted his thoughts. "You've been hanging around Professor Femishar too much!" Andile laughed as she pushed her way through the last of the plants and back into the small clearing.

He opened his mouth to protest - then closed it again. "Guilty as charged," he replied sheepishly.

She handed the padd back to him then reached into her own pocket, pulling out a small knife. With a swift gesture, she sliced off the top of the self-heating food container, then handed it to Picard.

"Hold this," she ordered, then fished a small red sphere from her other pocket and began to slice the object into small pieces, dropping them, and the brilliant crimson juice into the package of jelleb paste.

"What the..."

"Femishar said the native plants are safe to consume..."

"And you believed him?" Picard retorted in astonishment.

"Of course not," she countered. "But the briefing materials you gave me back on the Enterprise did say that the plant life here was, for the most part, safe and digestible. I had the scanner in the padd evaluate it. It said it was safe, non-toxic, and compatible with human biological systems," she said.

Reaching the hard core of the red object, she tossed it over her shoulder, then pulled a second one from her pocket. Grabbing the second food pouch from Picard, she deftly opened it and cut the plant into the container before handing it back.

Picard looked at the now whitish/pink mass apprehensively. "Did the scanner say what it tasted like?" he mused.

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Jean-Luc, Jean-Luc, weren't you just bemoaning the lack of adventure in Starfleet? Well, here's your chance to be adventurous," she said. "Eat up," she said, then dipped a single finger into the mix, studied it - then plunged it into her mouth.

"Hmm..." she murmured, then met his anxious gaze. "Have you ever eaten poi?" she asked.

Picard nodded, remembering - not fondly - his encounter with the slightly fermented porridge-like delicacy from Earth's Hawaiian Islands that had been served at one of the requisite ceremonies he had attended there. It had been treated with veneration and presented to him as an honor - but if it had been up to him, he would have spit out the offending mass and disposed of the remains. Protocol, however, required that he choke down a polite portion of the food, which, being a Starfleet officer he managed to do - despite the protestations of his stomach.

Protocol, he sighed. Decorum.

Starfleet.

"I have," Picard replied, looking at the mixture suspiciously, trying to conceal his lack of enthusiasm.

"Well, it doesn't taste anything like that," she announced. "It's more like garlic and onion - but milder."

Curiosity - and appetite - whetted, Picard took a fingerful of the mass, tasted it - then nodded. "Not onion; more like leeks," he decided. "It reminds me of vichyssoise," he said, "only thicker. And hot," he added. "And without the cream."

She gave him a caustic look. "Well, it reminds me of pumpkin pie," she offered. "Only without the spices, the sugar or the crust."

Picard looked at her askance - then realized she was teasing him.

"Vichyssoise is a cold potato soup," he explained. "Usually flavored with onion and leek, sometimes with a touch of garlic," he added. "The flavors are similar - but the texture is different."

Andile took another fingerful of the mix, put it in her mouth - then nodded. "I can see it," she agreed, "though you'll have to admit it has the consistency of mashed pumpkin," she said.

"So we're both right?" he said bemusedly.

"It has been known to happen," she suggested.

They ate the mix for several minutes, then Picard said, "I didn't mean to insult you."

"I know - but you did," she replied, then set down the packet of food and looked at him. "Jean-Luc, I'm not the frail, sickly woman you knew four years ago - and I'm not the mentally disturbed woman you pulled out of a Cardassian jail two years ago."

That might be questionable, Picard thought to himself; even on her best days, Andile's mental health had been fragile - but he wisely refrained from remarking on that fact.

"I don't need to be pampered or cared for," she continued. "I don't need to be saved or rescued. I'm not entirely sure I even need to be taking a vacation right now," she added, then hastily continued, "but I agreed to it - not because I wasn't capable of persevering; I agreed to it to facilitate my children getting home safely.

"I would like you to remember that - and to remember that I am a healthy and strong individual who would like to be treated as such. Let me do my share of the work, Jean-Luc," she said softly. "Treat me like an equal. You wouldn't treat Beverly like you've been treating me," she added pointedly.

"Yes, I would," he protested swiftly.

Surprised, she said, "You would?"

"Yes," he insisted. "And within five minutes she would be doing exactly what you are doing," he admitted, "reading me the riot act, telling me what I can do with my Gallic chivalry, and storming off into the woods. The only difference is that she would find some new fruit instead of red garlic onions," he added.

Andile chuckled at his observation, then shook her head. "Not on this planet," she countered.

He frowned.

"No fruit," she said.

"No fruit?"

"Uhn-uh," she confirmed. "No flowers either," she added - then grinned at him mischievously. "Let me know when that sinks in."

Picard looked around the heavy growth - then realized the woman was right; not only were there no obvious fruiting bodies on any of these plants - but there were no flowers of any type.

Not here; not at the primary campsite.

He looked at her, then nodded, comprehension registering. "No animals," he said, recalling the odd silence that had accompanied them throughout their travels. "No animals at all," he realized. "Not even insects."

He hadn't realized that fact before; at the base camp, the noise of the work had disguised the absence, but at night the lack of sounds had plagued him at a subconscious level. No animals moving, no bugs buzzing or crawling, shifting the leaves and dirt that covered the ground.

All there was was silence.

Silence wasn't a natural state in his world, he realized; in his quarters on Earth, there was always noise from the street, the apartments that abutted his living space, dogs barking, people passing.

Even on shipboard, there was always some level of ambient noise - and with it the reassurance of life continuing around him.

But not here, he thought; here there was no sound but for that of Femishar and his people, Andile and himself, and the faint sounds of wind in the trees.

The planet was still, quiet; not lifeless, but still somehow uncomfortably wrong.

"No animals," he repeated, "so no need for fruit that will entice the animal to eat it, then spread the seed in its excrement."

"No insects, so plants pollinate on the winds," she concurred.

"And that thing we just ate?" he queried.

"A seeding body; we're coming up to rainy season, so they are ripening now, ready to be dropped in the heavy rains, then carried downstream; the outer body protects and feeds the seed until conditions are right for the seed to sprout and start to grow," she concluded.

"Interesting," Picard replied.

"There are similar plants on most worlds; it's not unique," she admitted. "We'll probably find a dozen variations on it - but without finding any that have the sweetness of fruit," she added with a pang of regret.

He studied her for a moment, surprised by the disappointment in her eyes - then remembered her fondness for apples...

"Pears," she corrected him.

"Pears," he agreed - then smiled, adding, "and raspberries."

She gave a purr of delight at the memory of the tiny, seed-filled fruits. "Raspberries," she murmured, then sighed, "but I suppose that would have been asking too much of this planet."

He looked at her curiously. "How so?"

"Well, the seed isn't unique: there are similar seeding bodies on planets through the quadrant. But this place is. Unique, I mean," she furthered.

"Indeed?"

"Yes, indeed," she countered brightly, her eyes beginning to shine with anticipation. "Tell me, my dear Admiral Picard, what other planet that has this level of plant growth - but no animal life?" she asked.

He considered for a moment then shook his head. "I don't know of any - except of course for a few colony worlds that Starfleet has..." he started, then stopped as he understood her point.

"There aren't any," he continued, watching her smile grow, "except for..."

"Except for terraformed worlds," she agreed. "Jean-Luc, this planet was built - or rather, re-built, by someone, for someone."

"And Femishar's artifact? The primary dig site?"

"A souvenir of an off-world trip to a primitive world, perhaps even a colony of primitives for the locals to observe; perhaps one of dozens of colonies alien species they kept - a zoo, a research facility..."

"Dear God," Picard murmured.

"Or there could be any one of a thousand other explanations for what he found," she offered. "The point is that we don't know what this place was, or who built it... No one does," she added. "At least, not yet.

"But we can," she went on quietly. "Jean-Luc, if we're right, if this world was terraformed - or whatever-a-formed," she added with a smile, "we can be the first. Or at least the first in a long, long time," she said. "The first since its builders left it behind.

"You want exploration, Jean-Luc? You want adventure? You want the thrill of discovering, of finding out - of learning and knowing?" she asked seductively. "Well here it is."

He looked at her - and felt the same light in her eyes growing in his own - then grabbed her hand. "Come on. We can make another kilometer before the sun sets," he said as he reached for the machete.

"We can make two if you let me carry half the gear," she pointed out.

He stopped, ready to protest - but the tug of the adventure, the opportunity to explore the unknown was too strong to bother with the old argument. There was chivalry, yes - but there was also opportunity, excitement... and fun.

And it had been a hell of a long time since life had been fun.

He released her hand, shrugged out of the backpack, opened it and quickly began to divide the supplies.

Ten minutes later, the gear was separated - albeit it still less evenly than Andile would have liked - and the packs ensconced on the backs of their carriers.

Picking up the machete once more, he stepped toward the unbroken forest - then looked back at his companion.

"Well?" he asked - then extended his hand to her.

She studied the hand for a moment - then took it, felt the warmth of his embrace enfold her hand, and followed him into the green depths.


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

The youngest captain in Starfleet history.

For nearly four generations, the citizens of the Federation grew up knowing that coveted title had been held by the nearly deified legend named James T. Kirk - and for most of the Federation and the allied worlds, that belief still held firm.

It didn't matter than half a dozen others had supplanted that position in the last eighty years, taking the honor at younger and younger ages; indeed, it was inevitable. After all, Starfleet was no longer that limited elite of a few dozen starships, manned by a few hundreds of crewmen, needing honed and refined leaders who could meld the skills of diplomacy, battle tactics, management and leadership: now, there were thousands of ships of all sizes, ranges and abilities - and each needed a leader.

Starfleet had changed its training protocols to provide the ships with the captains they required; Starfleet applicants were tested as soon as they entered the Academy, and those who possessed even a glimmer of command potential were quickly funneled into the programs. As their strengths and weaknesses were identified, they were shaped, molded, guided for whatever command position they could hold, then sent - or pushed, forcefully at times - into positions where those positive attributes could be best used - and the negative ones ignored until such a time as they could be addressed.

Or until they were killed through accident or their own ineptitude, Captain Herreiria Eloyisa Moreta Honrubia added bitterly.

On rare occasion, those ill-fated assignments had resulted in the meteoric rise of an untested officer who rose to the occasion, and continued to shine brightly throughout his career, she knew; more often, it had ended with a premature departure from Starfleet as the weight of unbearable responsibility crushed those who were unprepared for its weight.

The horrific impact of the Dominion War had ended with more than a dozen ships having captains who were under the age of twenty: ensigns and junior grade lieutenants forced into roles that they were untrained and unsuited for, granted field promotions that put them in charge of a ship with the only support they were given being a sincere prayer for their success in the battle - and their ability to survive long enough to return to Earth.

For most, that was the limit of their tenure in Starfleet; youths, barely out of puberty, forced to accept the realities of their mortality at far too early an age were generally not good candidates for the position of having to decide the fates of a dozen, a hundred, a thousand others. They thought too much, or too hard, or too slowly - or too compassionately. For them it was enough that they survived to return to their home worlds - and they left Starfleet, trying to repair their shattered morale and disrupted lives, far from the world of the Federation and Starfleet, their fantasies stripped away forever.

But they left behind their legacy: the youngest Starfleet captain was barely seventeen when she was granted her command - less than half the age of the revered James T. Kirk when he became captain of the Enterprise.

Most of the Federation didn't know that, however; most of the Federation held resolutely to that ancient belief that he was the youngest of them all. Herreiria smiled: after all, she mused, most of the Federation believed that the Great Wall of China could be seen by the naked eye from the surface of the moon.

It wasn't that people were stupid, she added; anyone with a half a brain could reason out that something that was only 15 meters across couldn't be seen from a few kilometers away - let alone, let alone almost half a million kilometers! In the same way, the general public knew, consciously, that ten thousand ships could not be commanded by people who had been tested and seasoned for almost two decades before they received their first command; after all, less than one percent of Starfleet's cadets ever made it to being a captain; to have done what they thought had happened, Starfleet would have had to have been hundred of times its current size, with Academies - plural! - on every world in the Federation to have been able to achieve that reality.

But facts were not something that interfered with the way most people thought, she reminded herself, and if the public didn't want to acknowledge that a ensign with less than one year of service had been granted a commission as captain of a Starfleet vessel six days after her seventeenth birthday, then so be it. She knew it - and that was enough.

The public didn't need to know that she had survived the battle that had killed more than half of the ship's crew, or that she had saved those who hadn't died in the first hours of the attack or that she had gotten them home safe and alive. That they didn't know that she had even managed to get in a few horrific strikes on her attackers, leaving them as wounded and desperate as she had been, meant equally as little to her.

Lost in the onslaught of war news, they never knew that her battle with the Dominion had ended as a draw - or the next battle she fought had ended in a victory. Perhaps not as decisive a victory as her esteemed predecessor had achieved in his life, she conceded - but they had won it nonetheless - as they did the one after that, and the one after that, and the one after that.

And though few, if any, outside Starfleet would ever know her name, her reputation grew in those places where it mattered: in the halls of the Admiralty, and most importantly, in the hearts of her crew. When the war finally ended, and the need for seasoned captains became desperate, they turned to her, granting her a full, unconditional commission - and a ship that merited a captain of her abilities.

And now, seven years later, at the ripe old age of twenty-four, she found herself in the center seat of a Defiant-class ship, heading up its dedicated and talented crew of thirty, directing the operations of the most battle-ready vessel Starfleet could man, working on the cutting edge of the most pivotal and exciting events in history - and asking herself, "What the hell was I thinking?!"

It was not a question she asked herself often; indeed, she couldn't remember ever questioning her role in Starfleet before. But in the last four days, the question had never been far from the front of her thoughts - and in the last few hours it had become the primary focus of every waking moment.

But then again, she reminded herself, her time in Starfleet had been filled, almost from the very beginning, with issues of strategy, battle tactics, defense, retreat. Until four days ago, her thoughts and her efforts had focused on the real issues of survival in a brutal and unforgiving environment.

Until four days ago, she had never truly had to deal with that most dreaded aspect of life in Starfleet: the bureaucrats.

Until four days ago, she had never had to deal with Admiral Thaddeus Czymszczak.

Oh, Herreiria had had to deal with her superior officers throughout the war - but those men and women had been like her, able to focus on the essentials, on what really mattered, keeping their mind's eye on issues of survival; even after the war, they had known that the quadrant was still fractured, still unhealed - and they were ready to face whatever the detritus of the war threw at them.

What she had been utterly unprepared for was the appearance on her ship of a bombastic, self-aggrandizing egomaniac in the form of a Starfleet admiral; from the moment he had come aboard, he had made sure everyone knew and understood he was her superior in all things - and that his command was law.

Which it was, she acknowledged readily; he was her superior... but only, she thought grimly, because he had never actually done a damned thing. If he had ever actually served on a ship...

...he would have been dead a long time ago.

It wasn't that he was incompetent, she reminded herself; he was clearly brilliant, clearly able to do what an officer was required to do - but there was something in his manner, something in his attitude toward those around him that announced his absolute conviction in his own superiority - and everyone else's inferiority - and she suspected that he had always been that way.

No, he would not have died through an act of stupidity or carelessness, she knew; he would have done whatever it took to ensure that he survived - regardless of the cost to those around him.

And that, she knew, would have been his undoing.

An officer like that has no place serving on a battleship, no business pretending he was a member of a team when he was simply using those around him as protection. He would have been a greater danger to his fellow crewmates than any enemy would have been - and, as when confronted by any enemy, an officer who truly cared about his people would have acted promptly to eliminate that threat.

It wouldn't be the first time an officer had taken out one of his - or her own - she knew; the needs of the crew, the survival of the ship were always the priority of a good captain - and bureaucrats, even admirals, were a dime a dozen. One more dead one here would never be noticed...

She glanced up suddenly, hoping that the sycophant who had accompanied Admiral Czymszczak was no telepath - then pushed that paranoid thought away. Czymszczak, she decided, was far too aware of his own position, thoughts and plans to have risked having his mind read by one of his own people; a 'path could too easily determine what he was thinking - and while the need might never arise for the telepath to use that information, it could just as easily become essential for his or her survival.

Czymszczak would never take that risk, she knew; even an officer who acted completely on the straight and narrow would never have wanted their thoughts under close scrutiny - and Czymszczak was far too successful to have always acted in complete accordance with the law.

And not that she was seriously tempted to frag the man; he was a royal pain in her ass - but he would be gone as soon as they reached Riker and the Enterprise.

If they ever did, she added impatiently. Where the fuck was Riker?

Calm down, she told herself; it's a big universe - and despite what regulations stated, there was simply no way that Starfleet Command could ever know the precise whereabouts of any of its vessels, even if they reported their every movement and change of course - which, of course, she knew full well, they didn't.

Even if they had, however, by the time Starfleet received those changes they were meaningless, received hours, days or weeks after the events, and superseded by a dozen more course changes in the interim - and by the time they relayed that data back to another ship in the field, it would have little to do with the reality of a ship's location. It was simply a pointless labor whose time had come and gone - and while the letter of the law stated that every change was reported, it had become common practice for those changes simply to be recorded in the ship's log, and downloaded on a routine basis. Of course, changes that altered a ship's arrival time as part of a rendezvous or part of a mission were another matter entirely - but a degree of latitude had always been granted those captains whose rank and experience had earned them a measure of leeway.

Riker was one of those captains, Herreiria knew; he had the liberty to change course in order to respond to changing situations and report those alterations later... a liberty in which he was clearly indulging himself, she added sharply, glancing at the chronometer.

Fuck him, she thought - then chuckled.

Well, not any more, she thought - not that she had ever shared the big man's bed, she reminded herself hastily. Though he had been proclaimed as both an eligible bachelor and available bed partner at the time of her arrival at the Academy, the young women had quickly learned that Riker never dallied with cadets; a relationship between a high-ranking officer and a plebe would never end well for either of them, they quickly learned. And by the time the girls had achieved sufficient rank to eliminate that basic obstacle to Riker's bed, they faced one that was insurmountable: love.

It had taken years, but in the end, love had won out over physical passion. Not only was Riker no longer an available partner, but he Riker was engaged, then married - and now, if the latest scuttlebutt out of Starfleet Command were to be believed, about to be a father.

There had been some noises of protestation from a few of her acquaintances about his removal from the pool of available lovers - but to be honest, they seemed to be for the sake of show, rather than out of true loss. After all, Herreiria thought, we've all seen how horrible life can be; if nothing else, the war showed us the worst of life. But it also taught us the importance of appreciating the joys that life could bring; love, marriage, family... you found what joy you could, where you could - and held it close for as long as you could, she reminded herself. How could they, in all honesty, begrudge a man true love when he finally found it?

So Riker was off the charts when it came to finding bedmates, she thought - not that he had ever been on my heading, she added. She had met the captain a few times, and while she appreciated his open and ebullient style, she preferred her men more focused, more contained - more intense.

Lt. Jeff Hawkins looked over his shoulder, giving his captain a quick glance, then grinned at the woman sitting to his right, manning the helm.

"Which one this time?" he asked softly.

Haruhi Cylowski followed his glance, allowed herself to study her captain for a moment, then met his gaze again. "Simonson," she said firmly. "That's definitely her 'hot for Captain Simonson' moan."

Hawkins considered the woman for another moment, then shook his head. "That was a little more Casmarian than Simonson. The Simonson moan is a little lower; this one was definitely higher. Maybe she's lusting after our visitor," he suggested.

Herreiria opened her eyes to look at the giving him a caustic glare - and a look of utter revulsion. "I wouldn't fuck him with your dick," she growled.

Hawkins grinned at the retort, then turned his eyes back to his board. "God, I love this ship; no one in the fleet can match us when it comes to professional decorum on the bridge," he chuckled.

Herreiria grinned. It was true, she knew: the behavior of her crew was anything but compliant with the codified structure of the pseudo-military Federation. They were rude, they were crude, they were informal to the point of insubordination... and she would trust them with her life.

As they trusted her with theirs.

It was that trust, that mutual respect that had pulled them through fire fights that would have doomed another ship; she had trusted them to do what was necessary without relying on her to command their every action, and it was that trust that had kept them in Starfleet - and out of the brig.

Of course there had been a court-martial, she thought to herself; there was no way that they could have come out of that scrap with the Vegans without facing the wrath of Starfleet Command. It didn't matter that the Vegans had started the incident, firing at her without provocation... well, she conceded, without what she had considered provocation.

Yes, they had ordered her ship out of their space as soon as they had identified it as a Federation vessel - but there was no mistaking the ion tail of the damaged Federation vessel that had led her to this point. True, the damage hadn't necessarily been caused by one of the Vegans pirate ships that were rumored to patrol the regions around this sector... but if they were simply aiding a damaged ship and crew, why didn't they say so?

She had asked them that very question in her best diplomatic tone - and they had fired on her.

All right, she had admitted to the board of inquiry, her 'best' diplomatic tone had included open weapons ports and full charged phasers aimed on the capitol city - but she had no intention of firing. All she wanted was for the Vegans to clearly understand that she intended to retrieve the damaged ship, her crew and their cargo.

They had understood; seconds after transmitting her message to the Vegan government, three Vegan ships had decloaked and fired on her.

She had been prepared for it, of course; despite Starfleet Command's off-hand dismissal of the reports that the Vegans had been trading with Romulan dissidents for illegal cloaking technology, she had listened to the scuttlebutt that filled the captain's private communication channels and had taken the threat seriously, going into Vegan space with her shields up and powered to the maximum.

Still, there had been three of them and only one of her - and despite the power of her Defiant-class ship, there had been more than few moments when she hadn't been certain they were going to make it.

And maybe they wouldn't have, she added, if Haruhi Cylowski hadn't taken after her namesake and altered reality to fit her needs; acting without orders, she had fired the ship's phasers on the capitol city's power generators, instantly plunging the city into chaos, and cutting off all communications from the city to the ships.

The Vegans quickly regained their composure, of course; marauders and raiders were, by their very nature, free thinkers - but for a moment, the strike at the city had startled them - and for an instant, for that tiniest of moments, they had wondered about the safety of their world, their home - and what a Federation vessel could really do if her captain was determined.

And what a dozen, a hundred, a thousand Federation ships could do if this exploded into a full-scale war.

They had hesitated - and in that moment, Herreiria had secured her position by taking out the tactical stations on all three ships, then targeting the shield generators. They were toothless now: worse, they were toothless against an enemy who would they believed would not hesitate to fire on and destroy their homes, their families.

The Vegans had yielded moments later, never knowing how close they had come to destroying her ship. They had released what remained of the commandeered ship and her cargo - though there was substantially less than the manifest had originally declared - and announced, with profound regret, that the crew had been lost in the original accident.

Lost, my ass, Herreiria thought angrily; the Vegans had attacked the ship, killed the crew, the boarded her and brought her back to their world and plundered her cargo. She knew, they knew it - Starfleet knew it.

Starfleet knew it - but they would do nothing against the Vegans, wanting not to disturb the turbulent waters of that quadrant any further than they had already been disturbed. Instead, the Admiralty had taken out its impotent fury on her, requiring her to submit to a board of inquiry, then court-martialing her for the breach of command that Haruhi had committed. Someone had to be made the scapegoat, she had known - and if it couldn't be the Vegans, it would have to be her.

Except... Except it hadn't happened. Not that they hadn't tried, she thought; they had leveled every possible charge against her, hoping that at least one would stick so that they could put her in her place, publicly and noisily so that everyone could see that they had done _something_ to react to the events.

Indeed, she had thought she would lose her command over the debacle. After all, she had shown Starfleet to have failed in paying attention to the threat the Vegans posed, and to ignoring the intel that had been gathered on their weapon and shield capabilities - and the admiralty did not like to be shown in a bad light.

Steeled for the inevitable, she had been astounded to find a staunch ally in the most unlikely of places - in the Admiralty itself - and by a man not known for his tolerance of insubordination - or rebellion - in any form.

But for God-knew-what reason Admiral Picard had taken up her cause, defending her actions, arguing her case, supporting her cause with a passion she did not know any man could possess. He argued, pleaded, rationalized, defended - and in the end, secured her exoneration from every charge.

Afterward, she had expected him to read her the riot act concerning her actions, chastising her for every infraction she had committed - but the punishment had never come. Instead, he had remarked only that that it took a remarkable captain to trust in her people to do what was right and at the right time - then added, "Just don't make a habit of doing so too publicly. Starfleet doesn't like to be proved wrong, and they will not let a second incident go by unnoted."

She had watched as the old man had left the hearing room, too stunned by the quick end to the hearing to be able to react - then hurried out to talk to her anxiously waiting crew.

My crew, she reminded herself. Still _my_ crew.

But only because he stood up for me, she added.

Hawkins looked to Haruhi as another soft groan emanated from the captain's lips. "Simonson, again?" he asked.

Haruhi glanced at her senior office, then gave a shake of her head as she grinned. "Not even close," she murmured. "That's Picard."

"Picard? Admiral Picard?" he muttered in true disbelief. "Gods, she must be getting desperate. He's like a million years old. At least Czymszczak was born in this century," he replied.

"Czymszczak's an ass," Herreiria countered sharply. "And it's not about age," she added, "it's about... style, charisma..."

"Equipment," Haruhi offered with a smile.

"That too," Herreiria agreed, grinning back. "I've heard the stories..."

"Rumors and exaggeration," Hawkins interrupted. "I doubt there's anyone alive who can remember what he's really got - if anything."

"Jealous?" Haruhi teased.

"Of an old man?" Hawkins replied. "Not fucking likely," he said - then glanced at his board. "Cap, we've got an incoming message," he said.

"Put it on speakers," she ordered - but the lieutenant shook his head, unable to comply with the command.

"It's not to us, Cap; it's a direct message to Czymszczak's quarters."

Damn, she thought to herself, her mental hackles rising; this was the fourth direct message that he had received since he came aboard. Something was up, she knew - something he did not want her - or anyone - knowing about.

Hawkins ran his hands over the communications panel, then shook his head. "It's encoded, Cap," he informed her.

"So?" Herreiria countered. "Decoding private communications would be a violation of Starfleet regulations."

"That it would," he agreed, "if it were on a Starfleet channel."

"It's not?" she asked, surprised.

He shook his head.

Herreiria considered. What the hell was Czymczszak up to? Something sneaky, no doubt - it's what the man was noted for - but on my ship? I don't think so, she decided firmly.

"Lieutenant Hawkins, under Starfleet reg thirty-seven-oh-four point three two, ship's security might be endanger by the receipt of such a message."

"True enough - but the encryption methodology is beyond me, Cap; legal or not, I can't crack it."

Herreiria sighed.

"But we can backtrack it," Haruhi offered. "That's legal."

"Required, in fact," Hawkins said in support. "Encoded signals of undetermined origin present a potential threat. We need to know where it came from, Cap," he agreed. "For the sake of the ship," he added.

You just want to snoop in Czymczszak's business, she told him wordlessly - and you want me to justify it for you.

My pleasure, she told him silently.

"If it's required, it's required. Do it."

Hawkins grinned to himself, turning his attention to his task - then glanced back a few minutes later, the smile gone. "Cap, it's a Starfleet signal."

Herreiria shook her head. "But you just said..."

"I said it's not a Starfleet channel - but the carrier signal is definitely Starfleet," he said, perplexed. "Whoever's broadcasting in doing so with a device that was built with Starfleet technology."

For a moment, she had the same sense of confusion - then felt enlightenment dawn. A Starfleet signal - but not on a Starfleet channel.

Someone in the fleet was communicating with Czymszczak; someone who didn't want there to be an official copy that this communication ever existed.

Shit, she growled. Shit, shit, shit! Whatever the hell Czymszczak and his cronies were up to, it was wrong - and she wanted no part of it.

"Find out where the hell it's coming from!" she snapped.

"I've traced the path - but Cap, there's no ship out there."

"What?!"

"Not officially," he added.

Understanding dawned a moment later. "Unofficially?" she asked.

"Unofficially," he answered, "there's a record of a captain's yacht heading for that sector... and unofficially, it's showing the head of Starfleet Medical as her captain," he informed her.

She raised a questioning brow.

"Head of Starfleet Medical is Dr. Beverly Crusher," Haruhi opined.

"And...?" Herreiria prompted.

"She used to be the CMO on the Enterprise," the woman said. "Picard was captain of the Enterprise," she added.

"And...?" the captain repeated.

"Rumor is they used to be... involved. Rumor is they've been trying to get back together for a long time," she said. "And isn't Picard on the Enterprise right now? What better spot for a private rendezvous than where no one can find you?"

"Except he's not one the Enterprise," she countered. "Riker just dumped Picard at some shithole planet for a two month long archaeological dig," Herreiria replied brusquely.

"And Dr. Crusher is giving the keynote speech at some conference and will be away for the next few weeks," Haruhi replied. "Come on, Cap, what better way to have a off-the-record, month-long fuck-a-thon than to get your friends to cover for you, then take you to some back of the beyond planet where no one knows you, no one cares who you are, and no one cares how much you scream when you get off?" she asked.

Herreiria glared at the woman. "You're ruining my fantasies, Haruhi," she grumbled.

"Sorry, Cap," she replied.

"On the other hand, if Czymszczak's out to catch them fucking around, Picard would owe you one for the head's up," Hawkins said. "And Riker might be more than a little happy to know he's got a plant in his crew. You might get a three way with them both," he added.

Herreiria raised a brow - not so much at the thought of the tryst... okay, maybe there was a little temptation in the thought of a three way with the two legends... but moreso at the realization that not only would she be repaying Picard's favor to her - but she could do so while thwarting Czymszczak's machinations - whatever they were.

You're a sneaky, conniving bastard, she told Czymszczak silently - but you don't have a clue what I can do.

"Hail them," she ordered.

"Who?" Haruhi said.

"The Enterprise."

"We don't know where they are," she protested.

"Fine. Send a message to the exact coordinates that Czymszczak's message came from, and ask if Captain Riker can come out and play," she said.

"Shouldn't we wait to see if Czymszczak orders us to those coordinates?" Haruhi asked. "If he does, we'll know it's the Enterprise."

"If it is the Enterprise, Czymszczak will put us on silent running," Herreiria said, "and we'll be under orders not to contact them until we're there. No: call them now - before we get orders to the contrary. When it comes through, pipe it to my quarters, and secure the shit out of the channel. I don't want anyone listening in on this one," she continued, rising to her feet, tugging her uniform tunic into place - then added, "And Jeff?"

"Cap?"

"Make sure there's no record that we called them."

He grinned. "Called who?"

She grinned back.


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

Jean-Luc looked down at the pool of water cupped in his hands, studying the shimmering and distorted reflection of his face - then took a generous mouthful of the water, swished it around in his mouth, spat it on the ground, then rubbed the remaining handful over his face.

So much for washing up, he thought, let alone for shaving, he added, rubbing a hand over the damp stubble on his face, disliking the disheveled look he was developing, but knowing there was no option. There simply was not enough extra water available to waste on washing, shaving or even on brushing his teeth.

Then again, he'd been on enough digs - and enough away missions that had gone wrong - to know that the morning ablutions he usually enjoyed were a luxury he could live without - but it still amazed him that they had somehow managed to go from an overabundance of standing water to having to carefully ration what they had - and in less than one day.

Not that he objected, Picard added silently; their divergence from the river and swamps of the rainforest for the climb to a higher elevation had meant they would lose their source for fresh water - but only for a day, he knew equally well. A few more hours of travel would bring them to another source of fresh, clean water – providing, of course, that they could reach it, he conceded - then hastily chased the worried thought from his mind.

He glanced at his companion, concerned that she might have caught the errant thought - but judging from the blissful expression on her face, her thoughts were anywhere but on his.

Instead, Andile sat delightfully unaware on the massive rock outcropping that had served as their bed the previous evening, both blankets wrapped around her, cocooned in the silvery metallic fabric as she ran a finger along the inner edge of the food container, then raised the red stained finger to her mouth, licked off the residue - then smiled at her partner.

"I love you, Jean-Luc," she murmured contentedly.

For a moment the comment startled him - then he smiled back, understanding the source of the remark. "I take it, then, that you found the raspberry cobbler?" he answered, noting the red streak of fruit paste that adorned one cheek.

"Both of them," she grinned, holding up the second empty food container – then feigned a look of concern. "You didn't want any, did you?"

"I wouldn't dream of depriving you," he replied lightly

"Mmmm," she purred. "Raspberries _and_ a warm bed. What more could a girl ask for?"

"Perhaps something softer?" he suggested - though he had to admit that the smooth, weather-worn rock that had baked in the intense rays of the sun all day had provided them with a source of gentle and continuous heat all night long, keeping the startling cool night air at bay - and, he added with a contented smile of his own, giving them a way to dry out their rain and mud soaked clothes. By the time they had been ready to sleep, enough of their clothes had dried to the point where they could form a reasonable mattress beneath them. In the grand scheme of things, it was not a comfortable bed - but it was dry and warm, and for the first time since they had arrived on the planet, they had both gotten a good night's rest.

Better yet, with their clothes, bedding and supplies now far dryer than they had been since their arrival, the weight of their packs would be considerably less, making today's journey easier - if no less treacherous, he added.

But the same warmth that had dried their clothes and kept them comfortable all night long bespoke an intensity of the sunlight at this altitude, he reminded himself.

The Samarrasian sun was a G-class star, not unlike Earth's sun, and Samarrassia IV stood at approximately the same distance from that sphere as the Earth stood from its sun – but the ozone layer that protected the inhabitants of Earth from the intense radiation of their sun was thinner on this world; even a relatively short exposure could give them both dangerous – or even fatal - sunburns.

In the depths of the rain forest, of course, there had been no such worries; the trees had granted the archaeologists more than adequate protection from the sun's direct rays, if not its equally intense heat. Here, however, almost three kilometers higher on the northern side of the plateau and without the lush vegetation of the lower altitudes, they would receive the full impact of both: the heat – and the potentially lethal radiation.

Dr. Ogawa had provided them with the requisite creams and sprays to protect their skin, they were wearing long-sleeved shirts as well as full-length trousers – but even so, it was taking a chance. Adequate protection against the radiation – but not against the other effects of the sun. Judging from the amount of heat this outcropping had retained, it had been exposed to the sun throughout most of the previous day, he realized – and the rock walls that lined the next few kilometers were facing a similar exposure. Delay much longer and this passage will turn into an oven, slowly baking as the stone begins to radiate its heat back out at us.

We need to be moving, he decided.

Whether she heard his thoughts or simply had noticed his looking at the sun and the adjacent stone-walled path, Andile gave a sigh of resignation, slipped the empty food containers into her bag, then slowly unfolded herself from her comfortable bed.

Five minutes later, all of their gear and clothes had been reorganized and stowed back into the packs – except, Picard noted, for two of Andile's shirts.

"I would think one shirt should be adequate," he commented lightly, trying not to reveal his curiosity.

"It is," she agreed. "For me. The other is for you," she said, proffering the clothing.

He looked at the shirt, now thoroughly perplexed – then gingerly accepted it.

Smiling, Andile took the other shirt, opened it and placed it on her head, then drew the sleeves back and tied them behind her head. "You're going to need to cover your head, my dear Admiral."

Picard frowned as he looked at the shirt in his hands – then smiled, remembering having done something similar once before – although misadventure had turned out rather badly for him, he recollected.

Not an omen of things to come, he thought silently – then gave his companion a second questioning look. "I do have my own shirts," he reminded her.

"Mine smell better," she explained.

He gave the filthy fabric a tentative sniff – then reflexively wrinkled his nose. "I doubt that."

She smiled. "Picard, my shirts stink – but yours reek. Take my word; I was downwind of you most of yesterday. Next clean water we find, I'm throwing you – and these clothes - in. After I fill my canteen," she added, taking a judicious sip from her bottle then giving it a shake to gauge how much – or rather, how little – was left.

Securing the closure, she clung it over her shoulder, adjusted the makeshift headgear, then looked at him expectantly. "Ready to go?"

"I wasn't the one dawdling over breakfast," he reminded her.

"No, you were the one who was harassing me about not eating enough," she countered. "Now, when I finally do get my fill of something, you complaining about me slowing you down," she said, reaching for one of the two back packs.

Despite carrying the now dry – and therefore lighter – bundle of clothing, the balance of the gear remained as heavy as before – and despite the night's respite, they were both still nearing a point of physical exhaustion. Giving a grunt of effort, she hefted the bag to her shoulder – then felt the weight suddenly shift, threatening to take her over as it started to fall to the opposite side.

A profanity on her lips in preparation to greet the impending fall to the hard surface of the rocks, she found herself silence, instead, when the pack quickly righted itself – then became lighter.

Glancing behind her, she smiled sheepishly at Picard, who was holding up the errant carrier, supporting it until she could slide her other arm into the carrier strap.

"Thanks," she murmured. "I think it got heavier since last night."

"It's lighter – but we're both getting tired," he reminded her. "Once we reach the next water source, I think we should stop and make camp for the day; we both need the rest – and if this map is correct, we'll have less than a day's journey from there to the site of the anomaly," he added. "Another good night's rest and a decent meal should make tomorrow's journey all the easier – and after all, that's when the real fun will begin," he reminded her.

"Providing that there's anything there to find," she reminded him.

Picard considered that point for a moment, then gave a brief shrug. "If there's nothing there, then Professor Femishar's argument about his site might be considered more seriously." Taking the shirt Andile had given him in hand, he tied it around his head, much as she had done, letting the body of the shirt drape over the back of his neck, protecting it from the sun, then began to lift the remaining pack to his shoulders.

He grinned as he felt her – unnecessary - assistance in lifting the pack, then secured the clasps across his chest, adjusted the straps to shift the weight slightly, then watched her do the same.

Andile tightened one strap – then looked at Picard pensively. "You do know that if we don't find anything, Femishar will use your theory to discredit you, don't you?" she asked him worriedly.

"It's possible," he admitted.

"Possible?" she countered. "He'll make you a laughingstock!"

He gave her a searching look. "And...?"

"And? And?!" she answered, stunned by his attitude – then shook her head. "Don't give me that, Picard," she told him. "I know you! I know your ego – I know how important it is to you to maintain your image... the thought that people would be laughing at you... that you would let them laugh..."

Picard affixed her with a sober gaze, then glanced at the upward trail before them. "We need to be going, Dee," he said quietly, dismissing her concerns.

He turned away, leaving her to gape after him in astounded disbelief – then heard the sound of her boots scurrying to catch up to him.

For a time they walked in silence, the narrowing passage making conversation difficult – and the rapidly increasing incline and the growing heat making any task beyond placing one foot in front of the other all but impossible.

Breathing hard, then panting, then gasping for breath with each step they took, the path seemed interminable. At least, Andile thought, the path was relatively smooth, with no loose gravel or small stones underfoot to make their footing more treacherous than it already was.

_That's because the rainstorms have washed them away,_ Picard told her silently.

_Our good luck,_ she replied.

_For the moment, yes,_ he agreed. _Except that if you look at these rocks, you'll note they've fractured under the effects of the sun and the elements,_ he said.

Andile studied the boulders on either side of them, nothing the fractures and clefts – then realizing their path was nothing more than another of those clefts, worn wide by the effects of the elements.

_Shit,_ she muttered to herself. _So we should expect to have the ground littered with shards from the big rocks, shouldn't we?_ she replied.

She felt, rather than heard, his silent assent.

_And since there aren't any stones underfoot, then this area has had a relatively recent rainstorm,_ she surmised.

Another sensation or agreement.

_One that was strong enough to wash the entire area clear._

_There's no top soil or plants to hold the rain water in check,_ he offered.

_So when the rain comes down these paths – this path – there's nothing to slow it down; it takes everything with it,_ she concluded.

_Including us if we're unfortunate enough to be here when it starts to rain,_ he agreed.

_Thank the gods it's not the rainy season,_ she reminded him.

_It not the rainy season in the rainforest, Dee,_ he pointed out. _But we're almost seventy kilometers away from the camp, three kilometers higher – and climbing up the side of a plateau; the climate here was never analyzed – and the fact that there are no rocks underfoot is highly suggestive of frequent storms in this area._

"In other words," she gasped aloud, "we should get our butts in gear."

She felt his smile. "We should make haste," he agreed, "although the tricorder indicates that there were no storm fronts moving into this area."

"There wouldn't need to be a storm front," she said. "Warm moist air moving up from the rain forest could simply condense out at this elevation."

He nodded. "It could – and it probably will. However, if it does so, it will come up from behind us, so we should be able to stay ahead of the brunt of the rain – if it manifests itself."

"And if we can't?"

He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Then I needn't worry about being made into an object of derision. In any case, let's not delay any longer than necessary."

"Meaning shut up and haul ass," she agreed.

"Graciously phrased," Picard replied.

Despite herself and her worry over their position in the rock cleft, Andile allowed herself a grin – which quickly faded as the climb quickly grew steeper.

An hour – longer? Andile wondered – they came to a small ledge, barely wide enough for the two of them to stand, where the two walls of the trail narrowed to a point where not even she could worm through.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Now... we go up," Picard said, and began to wriggle out of the straps of his pack.

Dropping the bag onto his feet, he pulled out a length of climbing rope and two harnesses. Separating the two, he handed one to the diminutive woman, instructing her, "Put this on."

She looked at the harness – then glared at him. "The gods damn you, Picard – you knew about this! You knew we were going to have to climb!"

"It... was a possibility that I had considered," he admitted.

"And you didn't tell me? You bastard!" she snarled.

"Would you have come with if I had old you?" he answered.

"Fuck, no!"

He gave a half shrug, as though her answer proved his point. "Which is why I didn't tell you," he explained. "Now you have the choice of going back down – with less than a half day's ration of water – then following the riverbank, trying to find a place where you can ford it, then trekking the remaining thirty kilometers. Through the mud. Without rations," he added.

"Bastard!" she growled – then looked back, as though seriously considering the alternative – then looked forward again - and shuddered. "You really want me to go up there," she whispered.

"You said you could climb."

"I can – but that doesn't mean I like it!" she protested – then looked away, unwilling to allow Picard to see the panic on her face.

He didn't need to see it to know she was terrified, however; he knew that she had fallen from her parents' airship as a child, and had almost died as a result – and that her mother had perished when she tried to save her only child. He knew that her father had never forgiven her for that; that he had grown careless as a result and died shortly thereafter, leaving her orphaned and at the mercy of her people's religious beliefs – beliefs hat had made her the emotional and physical scapegoat for their fears and anger.

Exiled, she had lived alone for years, returning only when necessity required – and in doing so, had fallen once more, this time breaking so many bones that she had nearly died again.

Except she didn't die – indeed, she couldn't died, she had come to understand; in time, her bones had healed, and she had climbed free of her temporary prison – and back into the hellish world her people had made for her.

She had survived – but her fear of heights had never left her; even on the Enterprise, she had never willingly walked on the catwalks of the upper levels of the warp core – not without holding tightly to the railings and slowly edging her way along the metal flooring.

He felt for her – but there were times when one had to work past one's fears, he reminded her wordlessly.

Like now.

She met his eyes, then shook her head. "Please, Jean-Luc, don't make me do this," she whispered at him.

"There isn't a viable option, Dee," he replied gently. "We go up – or we try to make it by going around the mountain."

"You can climb," she countered. "I'll go around; I'll meet you there..."

He shook his head in response. "No. Whatever we decide, we'll do it together. Either we go up – together – or we go back to the camp. Together," he concluded firmly.

"But if we go back, Femishar will make a joke out of you," she protested. "He'll ridicule you, make you look like an idiot with pretensions of archaeologic grandeur!"

"And...?" Picard replied.

"And?!" she snapped back in protect. "And... You're Jean-Luc Picard, the pride of Starfleet! You defeated the Borg, the Remans! You've been on more first contact missions than any other captain in the history of Starfleet! You are the hero of the Federation!" she reminded him angrily. "You can't let him do that to you!"

Picard looked at her with sober eyes – then shook his head slowly. "Dee..." he began – then stopped, sighed, and shook his head once.

"Perhaps I was those things... once. But that was some time ago. Now... Now, I am an old man, promoted to the Admiralty only because it was the most politically astute way to ease me out of the limelight. Whatever political clout I might once have held is long gone; indeed, I suspect that there are those who see me as nothing more than a doddering old fool, promoted into a role where I can change nothing, do nothing – except wait to retire, or to die. If Femishar tries to make a fool out of me, I suspect he'll find that my comrades are already laughing," he said quietly.

She stared at him, shocked into momentary silence by the revelation. "Jean-Luc..." she began at long last – but he stopped her with a raised hand.

"So it doesn't truly matter if we go back, forward – or around. This expedition... This was my thought of how to enjoy one last exploration while I could. And if I find something... all the better. But if I don't... then I don't. To be honest," he added softly, "I find it no longer matters.

"What does matter," he continued, "if being able to enjoy a holiday, away from Starfleet and the concerns of the Federation's politics – and with a friend."

Andile stared at her friend for a long time. "I didn't know it was that bad," she said at last.

Picard smiled. "I fear I made a mistake that I was warned against a long time ago – that I should never step down from the center chair until I wanted to go."

"So why did you?" she asked, curiously.

"I wasn't given the choice. Step down – or retire. Time and Thaddeus Czymszczak wait for no man," he informed her. "I thought the promotion the better choice; in retrospect, I think it wasn't.

She studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "You're planning to retire, aren't you? And this was to be your last hurrah?"

He smiled. "I had entertained that possibility. But as I said..."

"Yes, yes, now you're just happy to take a long holiday with a friend. Gods, Picard, it's fucking amazing that you didn't go into the diplomatic core, the way you can trowel it on," she informed him.

"I have no idea what you mean," he replied innocently.

"Of course you don't," she sighed – then looked up at the rock face. "How far?"

"Not far; only a few hundred meters."

"A few hundred meters," she echoed – then looked back at him. "You promise that there's water up there?" she pressed him.

"I promise," he said - then smiled reassuringly as she looked up at the steep climb before them. "Don't worry," he continued. "I'll take the lead. That way I can help you if you can't make it," he added.

She gave him an indignant glare. " 'Can't make it' my ass. If you're expecting me to rise to that bait, you are sadly mistaken," she informed him – then quickly took the harness from him.

"You're going to have to take off your pack," he said. "The mass and the change in the center of gravity will throw off your balance. We can tie them to the end of the rope, then haul them to each resting spot as we climb."

She nodded, shedding the pack, then stepping into the harness.

A few minutes later, the two faced each other, each visually checking the integrity of the other's harness.

"I hate these," she grumbled as Picard tightened one of the shoulder straps of her harness.

"They are Starfleet's most recent version," he protested.

"As may be – but these harnesses always reminded me of a kinky sex apparatus," she complained. "Straps over the breasts, under the breasts, outlining the crotch..."

He stared at her for a long moment, then finally murmured, "I... uh... hadn't considered that."

"Well doesn't it?!" she asked, extending her arms out to her sides, spreading her legs as far apart as the small ledge would permit, displaying herself.

"Um... yes... well, uh," he managed hoarsely before hastily turning away.

"Perverts," she muttered to herself.

Picard hoped that she was referring to the harness designers, and not to the thoughts that were unwittingly filling his mind.

Thoughts that would not facilitate the climb ahead of them both, he reminded himself. Forcing his thoughts to still themselves, chasing the images he should never have considered from his mind, he quickly regained his composure and began securing the packs to the end of the rope.

The task took longer than it should have, in part because he was not willing to lose the packs because of a slipshod knot – and in part because possibilities he had never before contemplated were now refusing to leave his mind.

Damn you, he cursed silently – though he wasn't sure whom he was cursing: himself, his mind, Dee – or his own body. If his fingers couldn't manage to tie these knots, how the devil was he going to climb this rock face?

You'll climb it, he reminded himself, for the same reason that she will climb it; because there isn't any other option. Drawing a long, slow breath, he willed himself to relax – then slowly managed to secure both packs to the end of the line.

Finally, his composure back in place, he turned to face his companion, holding out the other end of the rope. "I'll take the lead," he began, reaching to thread the rope through her harness - but she instantly interrupted him.

"I'll take the lead," she countered, taking the rope and threading it through his harness. "I'm smaller, and if I manage to lose my footing, there's a chance you might be able to stop me before I pull you down. If you take the lead and fall, we're both going down," she pointed out.

"I'd advise that neither of us fall," he offered.

"Goodness me," she said dourly. "I had never considered _that_ option. I guess that's why they made you the admiral, Admiral."

Picard held back the smile that threatened. "Indeed," he replied with utter sobriety. "You'd be surprised how far a good grasp of the basics will take you in Starfleet," he replied with an equally dry tone.

"Indeed," she answered. "And speaking of basics, I don't suppose that bag of yours contains climbing gloves?" she asked.

As if having foreseen her request, he held out a petite pair of the hand coverings, then eased his own hands into the far larger pair he had brought for himself – and felt a renewed sense of adventure growing within him.

Picard had always enjoyed the sport – and the art – of climbing, although he had always felt that practicing on the holodecks was never quite the same as climbing in real life. Knowing there was no possibility of real injury, the thrill was somewhat muted; the need for precision and deliberate care in the selection of which rock or crevice to reach for was diminished; given time, it was possible to become sloppy and careless.

Putting on these gloves, however, he knew that while they would enhance his ability to hold onto even the most jagged of rocks and stones, they could do nothing to assist him in hauling himself up the rock face; from here forward, every inch, every step, every hold depended on his mind and his body – and not on a computer program.

He felt a sense of excitement growing in his soul, felt his senses sharpen, felt his awareness grow – and then felt the very soft and pliant body of Andile press tightly against him.

" 'Scuse," she said, pressing herself to him as she worked her way past him on the narrow ledge – then looked up, studying the way before them.

"Fuck," she muttered – then leapt up, reaching for the first handhold.

He watched as she climbed the first fifteen feet – then reached for the same first handhold, and began to work his way up the cliff.

The angle of the rock face was fairly steep, but the fractured rock face offered enough projections and crevices for them to be able to work their way up at a slow but steady rate, with only a few missed steps. Stopping every ten meters or so, Picard would haul their gear up to the next ledge, then slowly begin to follow her again.

After less than an hour, he felt the temperature change, felt the air begin to grow damp – and for a long moment, he feared that the theoretical storm they had imagined had manifested itself – and Andile's hoarse cry only served to exacerbate that fear.

He called out to her – but after the long walk through the oven-like crevasse and the subsequent climb, his parched throat was capable only of a indecipherable growl that wouldn't carry the ten meters to where Andile was now positioned.

_What's wrong? What is it?!_ he called out worriedly.

_I reached the top,_ she answered, her thoughts a blend of relief and exhaustion. _Just give me a sec and..._

He looked up, watching as the distant figure patiently secured her place, then carefully worked her way up and over the top ridge.

Five minutes later, he succeeded in reaching the same position – and found himself facing an outstretched hand, and a face that was split by an enormous grin.

"Well? Are you just going to hang there all day?"

Picard studied her for a moment, then freed one hand from its rocky embrace and reached up to take her outstretched one.

Pulled by his eager companion, he quickly scrambled over the cliff edge and onto the lip of the wide plateau, then fell back onto the hard ground that covered the area, panting heavily as a cool breeze wafted over him.

"It's got to be ten degrees cooler up here," she panted, still trying to catch her breath, then added, "here," and pressed her canteen into his hands.

The water was warm, metallic, flat – the last dregs of the water that they had collected the day before – yet it tasted as sweet as anything he could remember.

He swallowed it greedily – then pulled back, looking at his companion with an expression of concern. "That was the last of your water," he said.

Andile nodded. "First order of business is to find that source you mentioned."

"You didn't see anything up here?" he replied, surprised. "No springs – no pools from the rain?" he asked – then glanced around the plateau.

No, he realized, more than a little shocked, there was no standing or running water up here. No pools of rain water – and little vegetation to hold onto it, even if there had been.

"You weren't expecting this, were you?" she said.

"No. The geologic survey indicated that this rock a volcanic uprising, highly porous in nature..."

"Which it probably is," she agreed. "I've sent this same type of rock in Hawai'i on Earth, the mid-ocean ridge islands of Kenthar, the Isles of Gashet... Usually they've absorbed rain water for millennia, and it pools out everywhere."

"Except here," Picard pointed out.

"Except here," she agreed – then sat up, and reached for the line that still hung over the edge of the plateau.

"What are you doing?" he asked, slowly sitting up.

"Getting our gear," Andile answered, beginning to pull on the rope. "You promised me water if I climbed this fucking mountain. I climbed it; now it's your turn to deliver on your end of the agreement – and you can't do it if with our gear hanging two hundred meters below us," she pointed out.

He eased his way next to her, braced his feet against a small rock outcropping and began to pull on the line.

"It's not two hundred meters," he pointed out a moment later. "Fifty at most."

"Feels like two hundred," she answered.

"You're just tired."

"I'm just thirsty!" she objected.

He nodded, silently conceding his responsibility for their current predicament – then murmured, "At this elevation..."

"There's still some significant rain fall," she concluded for him.

"Enough to cause a similar level of ground erosion as we faced on the opposite side."

"At this elevation – the top of the rain clouds cross the mountain ridge. However..."

"The worst of the rain is left on the other side. As we descend..."

"The effect will diminish. We should see some standing pools..."

"If the geologic survey was correct, we should see springs," he concluded. "Possibly even thermal pools," he added.

She gave him a caustic glance. "Surely you're not suggesting I need a bath."

"I would never be so indelicate," he agreed. "I merely meant we could wash out our clothing," he demurred.

"Of course," she replied – then gave a grunt as the first of the packs cleared the ridge.

With a grunt of effort, they tugged at the rope a second time – and the last of the packs reached the summit.

For a moment, the two sat in the blazing heat of the sun – then slowly, wearily, then rose to their feet.

Within minutes, the climbing harnesses and the ropes has been repacked, and the bas returned to the backs – and Andile looked up at Picard. "Lay on, McDuff," she said.

Taken aback, he looked down at her. "You've been reading," he commented.

"Trying to acquaint myself with the culture of my ancestors," she admitted.

"Shakespeare was born after you were," he pointed out. "Technically speaking, you're his ancestor."

"Thank you for that reminder, Picard," she replied acerbically. "It's one thing to feel ancient – quite another to be reminded that you are."

"You're not ancient," he replied.

"At last guess, I was somewhere between ten and thirty millennia old," she reminded him. "I think that by anybody's standards, that's ancient."

He reached out, turned her to face him – and studied her intently.

Andile was many things, he thought as he looked at her – but the words 'ancient' was never one he would have thought of as describing her. Beautiful, however - yes; beautiful described her quite well.

Her eyes, brown as chocolate, deep as the pools of Rigel, aged by time and loss and experience – but shining so brightly with excitement and the potential that life offered; her nose a little too long, a little too narrow to fit her otherwise delicate frame – but still so uniquely, so deliciously hers; her mouth small, but her lips full, pale pink from being chapped by the day's sun; her cheeks sharply angled – too sharply to be classically beautiful, but slowly filling out as time – and a few servings of raspberry cobbler, he smiled to himself – helped her to regain the curves they had once held; her hair... oh, her hair, he thought. The beautiful long tresses of raven black that hung to her shoulders in long, graceful curls...

Perhaps, of course, there would be those who couldn't see the beauty in this woman; there would be those who would only see in her the horrors that the Starfleet surgeons had left after their countless attempts to rebuild the face that had been destroyed by the Cardassians – but the loss would be theirs, Picard thought as he studied his friend.

She was many things, he thought – but ancient? Never.

He stared into her eyes, allowing himself to be drawn closer to her – then pulled back.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"Your hair," he replied.

"My hair," she said.

"It's grown," he said.

She pulled back, raised a hand to her shoulder, gathered the ends of the tresses, looked at them – and smiled. "Another gift of my bizarre genetic make-up; my hair grows like crazy when I've had enough to eat. It drove Tiron crazy; he's insist I get my hair cut like a proper Romulan – then he'd insist I ate – also like a proper Romulan, which meant stuffing myself silly – and of course my hair would have outgrown the cut in a matter of days. He wound up hiring a full time barber to live on his estate just so we wouldn't have to run the risk of leaving the compound so often," she explained.

Picard stared at her for a moment. "Run the risk of leaving the compound?" he echoed, then added, "Explain."

Andile looked at him for a moment, realizing she had revealed more information than she wanted to share – then sighed.

"Tiron survived the coup. There were those who didn't accept that he just happened to be off-world at the time of the Reman rebellion..."

"You were on the Ba'ku homeworld," he clarified.

"I... took a turn for the worse shortly after we returned to his estate," she admitted. "There weren't many physicians on Romulus who understood human physiology – let alone who could treat it – and I couldn't return to the Federation for help. So Tiron made a medical mercy request of the Federation, to take his ailing granddaughter to the Ba'ku world to see if the metaphasic radiation would assist in the natural healing process. Tiron was the Emperor's new favorite, so of course everyone wanted to make nice with him – and off we went. We were there for three months, Jean-Luc; when we came home, everything had changed. The Praetor and the Senate had been killed, one wing of the military was in power, fighting against the other wing, the Emperor was fighting battles of his own..."

And Data was dead, she added to herself.

"There were those who said that the timing of his departure and return were more than coincidental – that they had been planned in advance – and because I was an off-worlder, my involvement was presumed."

"But the Federation helped the Romulans defeat the Remans," he protested.

"Romulus is not a world governed by reason," she countered. "Fear and suspicion rule the day there. I was an alien – and therefore, I was suspect. I became a liability to Tiron," she said softly. "My presence threatened his political future, threatened his life. Assassins broke into his estate, tried to kill him, kill me... they killed some of his staff – people who had been loyal to him and his family for generations..." She lowered her head, shaking it slowly. "He took me there to save me, Jean-Luc; now I was dooming him. I had to leave... We argued over it, of course – but in the end, I couldn't stay – not when it meant his life.

"But," she continued, "I kept the persona of a Romulan. After all, I was one – and I couldn't be a human any more. But that meant keeping the short hair as well, cutting it every chance I had – but it's been three weeks since I last had a pair of scissors – and see what's happened to it now," she protested.

He smiled sadly. "I'm hardly in a position to empathize with your hair woes," he pointed out.

Taking his face in her hands, she tilted it forward, planted a soft kiss on the top, then tilted it back so she could look into his eyes.

"False modesty does not become you, Jean-Luc," she said firmly. "You – with or without hair – are one of the most attractive men in the Federation – and outside of it – and you know it. Half the crew would have jumped into your bed without a moment's hesitation if you had even hinted that you wanted to 'make it so'... but you didn't, and they respected – and loved – you enough to not push the issue."

He studied her for a long moment – then smiled mischievously. "And which half of the crew were you a member of?" he teased.

"The half that didn't protest when Dixon Hill kissed her," she reminded him.

They studied one another for a long time, questions that neither dared voice roiling behind thoughts neither dared imagine. Finally, Picard finally spoke.

"We should be moving," he said quietly. "If we're correct in our suppositions – and that tree line suggests we might be – we should find some water somewhere down this slope," he said, gesturing toward the north and the line of green that hinted at the vegetation ahead.

"To drink, perhaps to bathe..." she paraphrased.

Despite himself, Picard chuckled – then reached out for his friend's hand.

Five minutes later there was no sign that any one – human or otherwise – had ever occupied the top of the plateau – only a faint trail of dust, marked by the footsteps of the trespassers – and the fainter sounds of two voices talking and laughing.

pulling the last of the packs up the rock face, secured the packs well away from the edge of the cliff, then slowly stood up.

The view was magnificent indeed; the small plateau that the topographic survey had shown was covered with deciduous trees – or something like them - soft grasses, a thin underbrush of small plants interspersed in a thick layer of leaves that had fallen from the tress over the years – and pools of water that reaffirmed his belief that this area received regular rain falls.

The air was rich with the scent of the slowly degrading leaves, the feel of moisture heavy in the air – and soft breezes that cooled his parched skin, sensations that stirred long-forgotten memories of the deep forests near his home in LaBarre.

And speaking of Andile... he glanced around the plateau, looking for his companion – and beginning to grow worried when he couldn't find her.

"Dee?"

_Dee!_ he added wordlessly.


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter 37

Sitting back in the plush chair, Beverly drew a deep breath, inhaling the fragrant hints of herbs and spices in her tea - and savoring a second, more familiar, scent as well.

It still smells like him, she thought to herself; it's been years since he lived in this space - but it still smells like him. How many people have lived here since then? she asked herself. How many visitors, guests, refugees, ambassadors? Did they notice that unmistakable scent of his - or is it just my imagination, she admitted with a chagrined smile.

Smell is such a primal thing, she mused; even the faintest hint could stir deep feelings, long repressed memories.

She allowed herself a second blissful draught of his scent - then smiled again.

He's a powerful man, she reminded herself - but not so powerful that the room would still smell like him after all these years - especially not with the ultra-efficient air purifiers and sanitizers that were part of the Enterprise's environmental system. No, any trace of Jean-Luc's reign on this ship - olfactory, spiritual or otherwise - had faded away long ago, as Will had exerted his control over the vessel - and if he hadn't been here only a few hours before her I got here, there wouldn't even be the faint trace of his smell left now.

Still, she mused, running her hand along the rich fabric that covered the chair's arm, he had sat here only a few days before.

And only a few hours before, he had slept in the bed she was about to occupy.

And, perhaps, she added sleepily, in just a few more days, she might be able to see the man for herself.

And maybe the bed would smell of us both this time, she added.

She closed her eyes, heedless of the mug of hot tea that was perched precariously on the arm of the chair, allowing the days of half-caught catnaps and mind-numbingly dangerous medical procedures to fade away, as physical and mental relief washed away the stress and worry of the last week.

In-utero DNA transections, she thought to herself foggily, remembering how she had spent the last twenty hours: in the best of cases, they were dangerous; on the worst of days, they were deadly.

Or worse.

And it didn't get much worse than this, she knew.

Radiation damage was not like genetic deformations; the radiation damaged organs and tissues at random and in different ways, with no way to guess which DNA sequence was damaged here, which organs were damaged there. With genetic deformations, they could just find the aberrant sequence, reprogram a virus to locate and rewrite that sequence, and support the fetus medially while the virus did its work. With radiation damage...

With radiation damage, they had to scan every inch of the fetus, looking for aberrant sequences, rewriting the damaged ones, excising the unsalvageable ones and substituting the correct ones - in a unborn child, still nestled in her mother's womb. And to do so on a malnourished mother and child, both woefully unprepared for a surgical event of that nature and duration? It was exhausting: for the patient, mother - and the surgical crew.

It was also incredibly dangerous; even with medical devices that functioned on the molecular level, one error could result in the creation of a defect that would not be noticed for years - and by then the damage would require medical intervention – provided that it could be cured at all.

It was simpler and safer just to wait for the child to be born and to deal with the defects as they manifested themselves... if they did. After all, she mused sleepily, who knew which damaged chromosomes were active - and which were only remnants of a former state of evolutionary development?

Except Cardassians didn't develop as humans did, she reminded herself; the neural connections in the developing fetus were exceptionally fragile at this point in a pregnancy - and even a mild disruption of the genes responsible for forming the neural pathways would leave the infant severely damaged - and the child would never get better.

Still, it was a gamble: having a baby - then a child, then a youngster, then an adult - who would never have a chance at a healthy life - or the possibility, the very real possibility, of having a baby born dead.

Could I make that decision for my child? she wondered in the first drifting stages of sleep. Could I have risked Wesley?

But perhaps the choice had been easier for these girls; a child trying to raise a child was task enough; to ask a child to raise someone who would never be able to live independently - and to do so on God-knows-which planet, with minimal support services - if there were any at all?

No, she thought; they wanted their babies - but they wanted to give them the best chance possible for what would be a trying-enough life.

But to be asked to make that decision at their age, she thought.

And then to learn the gamble had paid off, she added.

The girls had survived. The fetuses had survived. And, at least from the first scans, the surgery had been a success. Neural development was still impaired - but it was improving, she added, relaxing deeper into the chair. If the girls carried the babies to term, they would be born with a substantial degree of brain damage - but damage that would diminish as the brain continued to develop throughout their childhood.

By the time they were two years old, no one would know they were any different than any of the other children; by the time they were two, they would be no different, she added with a smile.

She smiled, nestled herself deeper into the chair, breathing in its hints of Picard's warmth, and allowed peace to drift over her.

Still a soft voice at the back of her mind nagged at her.

Wake up, it urged. You're cold. Get a blanket.

I'm fine, she murmured back. Just let me sleep.

Wake up! You need to go to the bedroom.

I'm fine here, she countered.

Wake up! You're neck will be stiff in the morning.

I don't care. I'm too sleepy to move.

Wake up!

All right! she replied. Just let me sleep a few more minutes.

Wake up!

Wake up!

"Wake up, Beverly. Wake up."

"Five minutes," she pleaded. "Just let me sleep five more minutes."

Will Riker smiled, then shook his head. I wish I could, he told her silently, then crouched beside her chair, laying a hand on her arm and gently shaking it.

"Beverly, I need you to wake up," he said, his voice quiet - but firm.

"All right," she agreed - but her eyes remained shut, her body unmoving.

"Beverly, I need you to wake up - now," he added, his voice growing a little louder, a little firmer.

She gave a piteous groan, then forced open her eyes, looked up at Will - and managed a very tired smile.

"Will," she said sleepily - then realization and recognition began to dawn. "Will," she repeated, straightening slightly in the chair - then looked up at him in sudden alarm. "Will! The girls! Are they all right?"

The question took the man aback. It wasn't that he wasn't aware of the activities going on on his ship - but it always took him a moment to remember that the concerns of each individual on his ship and his own focus of concentration weren't always the same.

And Beverly's primary concerns, he reminded himself, were, and always would be, with her patients.

Quickly recollecting the last report Alyssa Ogawa had sent him, he shook his head reassuringly.

"Dr. Ogawa said that they all doing fine," he assured her.

"Oh!" Beverly said, confused, fatigue still befuddling her mind. "But if the girls are fine..."

"The problem is of a different nature," a second, calmer voice informed her.

Beverly looked past the starship captain at the android who stood behind him.

"Data," she said.

"I am sorry to disturb your repose," he answered. "However, it is imperative that we act quickly," he continued.

"Act quickly," she echoed dully. "About what?"

Will looked at the couch that sat near the chair, then gestured at it in question. "May we?"

Still perplexed, she nodded. Reaching to the robe that covered her nightgown, she realized she was still holding the mug in her hand - but the tea it had once held had grown cold.

How long was I asleep? she wondered. It was after oh-two hundred... it's oh three thirty now...

Seeing the bewilderment - and the exhaustion on her face, Will managed a tired smile. "I'm sorry to have come in unannounced," he said.

"However, you were not answering your door," Data furthered.

"I was asleep," she protested.

"That was our surmise, and, as I stated, we do apologize," the android offered. "Nonetheless, the nature of the situation is such that the captain was compelled to use his security override to obtain entrance to your quarters."

"Yes," she answered blearily. "Great. Fine. You woke me up. I'm awake. Now what situation are we talking about?"

Will looked at her soberly. "You have to leave the ship, Beverly. Now."

"And you're taking this Captain..." Beverly's voice faltered as she tried to remember the woman's name... "Honrubia's word for this?" she finished as she, Will and Data hurried down the corridor.

It had been less than five minutes since Will and Data had wakened her – time that she had spent hastily dressing, throwing the few belongings that she had unpacked back into the travelall she had brought with her, and forsaking the shower she ached for for a cup of strong coffee, listening – but not fully understanding Will's reasons for wanting her off the ship.

Now, as they hurried toward the shuttle bay that had received her ship only a few hours before, she pressed them both for more details concerning her quick departure.

"Herreiria Honrubia didn't get to be the youngest captain in the history of Starfleet because she was cautious," Will informed her.

"I'm sorry; I thought Jean-Luc was the youngest captain," she countered, surprised.

Will glanced at his companion and managed a grin. "He was – for a time. I had hoped to take that distinction from him – until I ended up working under him. But the Dominion War forced a lot of changes on Starfleet – including field promotions to replace officer killed in battle. Herreiria was one of those given a field promotion – but in her case, it stuck when she proved herself an able commanding officer again and again and again."

"Oh? From what you had said, I thought she had a bit of a reputation as a trouble-maker," Beverly answered.

"She does," he agreed.

"And yet you're taking her word that Admiral Czymszczak is on his way here? How do you know she's not just setting you up for something?" she asked suspiciously. "Czymszczak's been known to bribe – or blackmail – others so he can get what he wants. If she's as young as you say..."

"Don't confuse young with naïve, Beverly – and don't confuse her rebelliousness with a lack of loyalty," he cautioned. "Despite her years, she's as seasoned a captain – and a politician – as the admiral is; she knows what Starfleet stands for – or rather, what it used to stand for – and she'll fight to make things the way she believes they should be. As for being bribed; she's where she wants to be; as for blackmail..." He grinned. "She already faced a court-martial; every dubious action she's every made has already been made public. There's not much that Czymszczak can say that everyone doesn't already know."

"So why is she getting involved? Why risk her position just because she thinks Czymszczak is up to something? If she's as politically savvy as you say she is, why not just keep her mouth shut and play it safe?" she pressed.

"From what Captain Riker has said, Doctor," Data offered, "Captain Honrubia is not one who prefers to 'play it safe'," he opined. "This is supported by her military record."

"You've read her Starfleet records?" Beverly asked incredulously. "Data, you only learned about this a few hours ago!"

"Actually, I leaned about these events fifty-two point three three seven minutes ago. Nonetheless, that would been more than an adequate period of time for me to peruse said records, Doctor," the android reminded her. "However, as my position as a Starfleet officer is now in question, it would have been inappropriate, and, indeed, criminal, for Captain Riker to have permitted me access to those files; instead, I simply reviewed the records of the war and the subsequent events at Starfleet that were made public during the time since my first corporeal body ceased to exist."

"You read the newsfiles," she echoed. "All of them."

Data gave her a curious look. "I believe that is what I said," he answered. "Was the content of my communication unclear? Perhaps there is a system fault in my language processing unit; perhaps Geordi can perform a level three diagnostic on those subroutines which would..."

Beverly sighed then shook her head. "There's no need, Data; I understood what you meant. I just... I just forgot what you were capable of doing," she added – then smiled. "I have missed you, Data," she added softly.

He looked at her in surprise, then cocked his head slightly. "I am not aware of missing you, Doctor, but..." He considered for a moment, "but it is... good to be home," he decided at last.

"And since you are back," Will interjected, "and you have read Herrieiria's records, you support my conclusion?"

"That Captain Honrubia's supposition about the events is accurate?" Data queried. "Indeed; her actions in the field of battle indicate that she is cognitive of the validity of her subjective opinions and utilizes them as though they were factual in nature."

"She follows her gut," Will echoed.

"Did I not say that?" Data asked, a worried look crossing his face.

Will waived off the android's expression of self-doubt with a smile, then stopped as they neared the turbolift doors and turned to Beverly.

"Herreiria thinks Czymszczak's up to something. I agree. Most likely, it's ploy to gather some headlines; after all, the election for the Council is in a little more than a year; if he doesn't start getting his name back in the public's eye, he's not going to get nominated. Getting in on a humanitarian relief effort that involves the Romulans and the Cardassians might be the way to do it.

"And as much as I would like to see that bastard out of Starfleet, I don't want it at the cost of four years of him serving on the Federation Council – and positioning himself for a run at the presidency."

"Will, as much as I agree with not wanting Czymszczak on the Council, I don't see what the harm would be in his coming on board the Enterprise..."

"If he comes on board, he's going to want to make sure he's viewed as having an integral part in the rescue effort or in getting the children to their new home; either way, he'll have his people interview the survivors," Will said.

Beverly's eyes widened as realization struck. "But the children don't know who Andile is," she said.

"No – but they do know that she isn't currently on board with them," he said. "That, in and of itself is going to raise some serious questions in Czymszczak's mind – enough that he will want to get some answers. And when he learns we've deposited her – a supposed Romulan – on a planet with the Admiral for a six week holiday – and have no doubt, he will learn that fact," he assured her grimly, "he's going to want to know why. He'll start asking questions – and he's going to demand answers," he pointed out. "I wouldn't put it past him to use telepaths on the children to get a clear image of everyone involved in the mess – and when that happens..."

"He'll realize Dee's alive," Beverly said softly.

"Alive – and with the admiral," Will agreed. "The worst case scenario is that he will hold the children as material witnesses – which could well start an incident between the Cardassians, Romulans and the Federation; I have little doubt that Dee bent more than few laws getting those children off Cardassia Prime – and probably as many taking them wherever they are going. And since he knows the admiral was involved in the rescue, he will go to Samarrassia IV to question him – and he will find Dee with him - and he will press charges of treason against them both.

"That's the worst; all that the rest of us face are charges of falsification of records and a host of other charges; we'll lose our positions, serve time on various penal colonies – but the admiral and Dee will be facing the death penalty."

"And Czymszczak will have the headlines he needs to become a predominant political image once again," Beverly whispered, shocked.

"The best case scenario does not have a more advantageous outcome," Data opined. "If Admiral Czymszczak arrives here and finds the children without their guardian, he might well use his position to force the resumption of negotiations with the Cardassians and/or the Romulans; either way, it becomes exceedingly unlikely that the children will ever reach their intended new home," he explained.

"Then we can't let him meet the children," Beverly said, understanding. "It's as simple as that."

Will nodded. "I'm having the yacht you came in prepared for immediate departure, Beverly; you and the children will leave this sector – then contact Tiron, and change your rendezvous point."

"Change it?" she asked, puzzled.

Will gave her one of his famous Machiavellian grins. "Beverly, if we don't know where you're going, we can't reveal it to Czymszczak. You'll be safe, the children will be safe, Dee and the Admiral will be safe..."

"We'll all be safe," Beverly concluded, giving him a somewhat skeptical look.

Will smiled back, then shook his head. "This isn't out of self-interest, Beverly; we're all adults; we all knew what we were doing four years ago when we decided to let Dee 'die' and go off with Tiron. We all were ready to lose our commands – even our freedom – for that greater good – and we still are. But..." He hesitated.

"But?" she echoed.

"But... I'm about to be a father; I would like to be around to raise my son... or my daughter," he added, "rather than seeing him born at a penal colony, and only able to hold him on visiting days," he admitted.

She studied him for a long moment – then nodded. "You're going to be a good father, Will – and if I can help ensure that future I will. But good intentions aside – I don't know that I can do this," she admitted. "Will, I'm one person! Even with Dee's assistant..."

"S'bey," Data offered.

"S'bey," Beverly repeated, "to help me, I don't know that I can take care of that many children – and pilot a ship. Not to mention that two of those children are in critical condition; ideally, they should be resting under medical supervision..."

"Which you can provide..." he pointed out.

"Not while I'm piloting a ship!" Beverly protested.

"Dee did it," Will reminded her.

"I'm not Dee!" she protested, then added, "And even if I was, she almost got them all killed!"

"Don't underestimate yourself, Beverly," Will countered quietly.

"Will, whatever my faults are, underestimating myself isn't one of them."

"Then don't underestimate me," he said. "I'm not sending you out there alone. Worf has volunteered to serve as your pilot..."

Beverly rolled her eyes. "Worf. Helping care for thirty terrified children and two very pregnant girls. An interesting choice. Spare me any more of your help, Will," she sighed.

"Ah. Then I shouldn't send Data and B-4 with you as well?" he asked, grinning.

Beverly opened her mouth to object – but before she could say anything, Data spoke.

"The children are familiar with us, Doctor; indeed, I believe that they are quite comfortable in our presence – especially that of B-4," he informed her.

Beverly looked at Will, who nodded.

"And both B-4 and I can be programmed with the Emergency Medical Hologram program to serve as medical assistants should any emergency needs arise," he reminded her.

"Data, you've only been on line a few days – and B-4 isn't exactly your intellectual equal," she pointed out.

"Our functionality – or any lack thereof - would be overridden by the EMH programming; should we be called into service, we would be able to function in that same capacity; we would, in essence, be non-holographic holograms."

Beverly shot will another questioning look. "Would that work?"

"Geordi assures me it would be – although he can't remove the personality program from the system in the time we have," he warned her.

Beverly sighed. "Lovely. Two holographic Dr. Zimmermans at once," she grumbled, remembering the meetings she had had with the esteemed physician – and the fact that every one had ended with boisterous arguments.

The man was opinionated, caustic, self-centered... and, she admitted, one of the best physicians in Starfleet.

And she would have two of him.

She looked at the android. "And you're willing to go with me? Data, I don't know when you'd get back to the Enterprise," she informed him.

"Doctor, when I was brought back on line, I believed it was fulfill an as yet unknown obligation to Ginger. I had thought that it was to resume my relationship with her – but given the turn of events, I have begun to question that conclusion. In the light of current events, it has occurred to me that perhaps I am here, now, because she needs me to be here – although in a different capacity than that which I first envisioned."

Brought back, Beverly repeated to herself, beginning to understand Deanna's concern for Data's mental health; did he truly believe that some supreme being had been responsibility for his recreation?

But if he did – well, what of it? She asked herself. Organic beings held to such beliefs and no one questioned them. Why couldn't androids have gods as well? She asked herself.

"In any case, Doctor, it is conceivable – even likely - that my inability to return to the Enterprise would be an inevitability I will face, even if I do not leave with you," he said quixotically.

She gave him a puzzled look. "I don't understand."

Will sighed. "Admiral Picard was responsible for funding all of Geordi's work on Data's reconstruction – with money that Dee and Data left in their respective wills. In theory, no Starfleet funds or time was ever involved in any of the work... but if Czymszczak were to find Data on this ship when he arrives, he might be tempted to confiscate him or ship him off to the Daystrom Institute, arguing the question of ownership, misappropriation of funds and Starfleet personnel time and efforts – possibly even the legality of the wills themselves; the issue might be tied up in the courts for years to come. If he can't get a headline from the presence of the rescued children, he could certainly make one with the possibility of an army of android soldiers."

"He can't do that!" Beverly protested.

"Given the extremes to which Czymszczak will go, do you want to risk Data and B-4's lives on that belief?" he asked.

"But the court ruled that Data was a sentient being!"

"That was twenty years ago, Beverly. The times have changed – and while the admiral didn't let that happen with the Data we knew twenty years ago, I can't be as confident that it they won't decide differently now," he said. "The war has changed the way a lot of people think about life; the fact that Data's memories were able to be downloaded before his death then restored to a new positronic brain might make a lot of think that while androids are sentient, they are also disposable."

Beverly gave a grim shake of her head – then looked at her friend. "Will, you know as well as I do that is Czymszczak can't find something to rejuvenate his stalled political career, he'll make up something. If it's not the children, and it's not Data – he'll find something else. And that might well be you."

"It's more likely he'll go after the admiral, Beverly," Will informed her soberly. "Czymszczak's had it in for the admiral for a long time – and taking him down publicly would suit him both politically and personally. Herreiria and I are not going to let that happen," he informed her. "If it means putting our careers on the line, we'll do it."

She nodded again, understanding too well the strength of the respect Will had for his former commanding officer, and the depth of the friendship they shared.

That explained Will's actions - but what drove the other captain, she wondered, her curiosity piqued.

Data answered the question before she could speak it.

"It is common knowledge, Doctor, that Captain Honrubia faced a court-martial several years ago. The specifics of the indictment were not made public – but she was exonerated of all the charges. What is of significance is that her chief defendant was..."

"Let me guess," Beverly interrupted. "Jean-Luc defended her."

Data's eyes widened in surprise, but Will merely grinned.

"And now she feels she owes him one?" she continued.

Will nodded. "Czymszczak let it slip that the Admiral was on the Enterprise – and Herreiria decided it would be prudent to give us a heads up. She's no fan of Czymszczak's, and she'll help him to fail wherever possible."

"Even at the risk of her command?" Beverly pressed.

"The admiral saved her command," Will countered soberly, "and more. Had the decision at the court-martial gone against her, she might well have lost her freedom as well as her ship. Herreiria's young – but she knows what honor is."

"Then I guess Jean-Luc defended the right person," Beverly agreed.

"Indeed," Will said. "Now, I don't mean to hurry you, but..." gesturing at her to enter the lift.

"But Czymszczak's going to be here soon," she said.

"And the last thing we want is for your ship to be close enough for him to order you back," he agreed.

"That might be difficult, Will; a captain's yacht does have limited warp capability," she reminded him. "He's going to be able to send a subspace message as soon as he realizes we've left."

"Providing he can locate your vessel," Data offered, He turned to Riker. "Captain, given the prolonged used of the yacht that Dr. Crusher has borrowed, it might be advisable for a complete check of the communications system to be performed as soon as the yacht departs. In that manner, we would be able to ensure that should Admiral Czymszczak wish to communicate with the yacht, we would receive his messages."

Will frowned – then smiled. "Data, a level four diagnostic would take more than twelve hours to complete. By that point you might have made multiple course changes; we wouldn't be able to reach you, even after the diagnostic is completed."

"That is also possible, Captain," Data agreed. "Regrettable – but prudence would be wise in a matter such as this. Reliable communications are essential."

Will's grin widened. "Clever – but Starfleet frowns upon its officers acting in such a manner to avoid their fulfilling their required duties," he reminded the android.

"Yes, sir. But, as I have been reminded of late, I am not a Starfleet officer," he pointed out.

"You're a good man, Data."

"Indeed," he agreed.

Will turned to the doctor, and allowed the smile to fade. "Beverly, it's up to you; if we get you and the children off this ship, there's every chance that Czymszczak will never know that Dee's back. And if he doesn't know that..."

"The admiral - and Dee – will be safe. Until you go to get them off that planet," she added.

"We'll work that out when the time comes," he conceded. "I might have to pull in a few favors – but I'll get them home again."

"Czymszczak might make your life hell," she reminded him. "You could lose your command."

"The admiral's risked more than his command and his ship for us; it's high time I begin to repay that favor," he told her.

Beverly studied him a minute longer – then raised herself up on her toes and planted a kiss on his cheek. "I love you, Will," she whispered. "Keep him safe."

"I will," he promised, then pushed her away gently. "Worf's waiting for you in the shuttlebay. The children have been boarded, your two patients have been placed in your Sickbay, and S'bey and B-4 are with them. You've got food and supplies – all we need is you and Data," he said.

"Pretty damned sure of yourself, aren't you, Captain?" she asked.

"No," he admitted. "I was just pretty damned sure about you. Now go," he said, gesturing at the lift one last time. "Get those children to safety – and I'll do the same for the admiral and Dee," he said.

The two entered the lift; Will watched the door close, then turned headed for the bridge – and prayed he be able to keep his promise.


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

He sensed it without growing aware of it: a slight change in the breeze that brought with it a touch of cooler air, wafting up toward them from lower on the mountain; a change in the moss below their feet, the hard structure beneath their boots slowly yielding to a softer springiness; the darkening of the trees as thin, willowy leaves yielded to flatter, broad ones; a faint hint of sweetness in the air that would have suggested fruit or flowers – or both – had they been on Earth; the faint thrum of power that filled his every senses, just as if had on his beloved starships.

He sensed it before realizing the source or its import; a change that was gradual, barely perceptible, coming upon him without a grand announcement.

Perhaps his dullness was due to his fatigue from too many days of hard labor with too little food and too little rest; perhaps it was due to his near-overwhelming thirst – or perhaps it was due to his ever-growing concern that his decision to take the shorter route over the mountain might have doomed both him and his companion.

Whatever the reason, he continued to walk, stumbling every now and then, proceeding almost blindly, aware yet unaware – until the slope flattened out as they approached an outcropping of rock.

"The angle is decreasing," he told his companion through parched, dry lips. "We must be near the bottom of the mountain," he repeated.

"How far to the river?" she replied hoarsely.

More than twenty kilometers, he thought silently. Another day's hike, he added – but one that they couldn't possible make.

Once they reached the bottom of the mountain, they would be facing an expanse of arid terrain that the reconnaissance satellites had shown to be little more than open scrublands: hot and dry with no protection from the sun until they finally reached the river's edge.

Oh, Dee could make it, he amended; somehow, her remarkable body would survive the brutal conditions she would find on the plain, and she would manage to reach the water – and she would survive.

But she couldn't get there and back to him in time, he added knowingly. At best, she could make it in two days; at best, he had one day left before dehydration claimed him.

They had found water, of course, as they traveled down the mountainside – just as he had known they would. The trees that grew on this side of the mountain were clear indicators that rain fell – and in some abundance.

But not of late, they learned quickly. The few pools that they found were old, filled with water that had been standing for too long; tannic and foul, they had hesitated drinking from them until pressed by sheer desperation – and when they did, they both soon found themselves retching and vomiting as their stomachs rebelled against the fouled water.

Now, nauseated and even further dehydrated than before, they walked slowly, taking care not to miss even a single step, lest a fall break a bone, and trap them both on the mountainside.

In the end, of course, it wouldn't make much difference, he thought; to be found dead, here, by Starfleet rescue teams or dead a few kilometers further would be meaningless to him – and a death sentence of a different source to Dee. Yes, her body would survive, no matter whether they found water or not – but his death would initiate an investigation – but her true identity would be found out, she would be arrested, put on trial, and...

"Gods, you're a grim one," she gasped at him.

"Perhaps I'm just sensing your feelings on the matter, my dear," he countered, quickly realizing that the source of his dark emotions might well be the woman beside him. "I'd like to think that I can maintain a more positive perspective, even in the most dire of circumstances."

She tried to stick out her tongue at the man – but the tissue was too dry for even that minor effort; it stuck against the roof of her mouth, refusing to free itself until she forced it – by which point she had forgotten why she had made the effort.

"Let's take a break here," Picard suggested, feeling her fatigue as intensely as he felt his own, pointing at the rock outcropping, then started to shift his pack from his shoulders.

"No," she answered wearily.

He raised a brow in question.

Andile pointed at the patches of sun that shown through the heavy leaves. "In a few minutes, the sun will be hitting the rock – and we'll be in its path. If we fall asleep, we might not wake up in time to move before we're roasted."

"Then we won't fall asleep," he objected.

"You won't, maybe but me?" She managed a weary smile for him. "If I sit down," she informed him, "I'm staying down. At least the other side will give us some shade."

He considered her words, then nodded, pulling the straps back into place, wincing as the weight dug deeper into the already too-worn flesh, then began to find a way around the rocky obstacle.

A few minutes later, he watched as the rock gave way to more of the thick moss that had been on the far side of the mountain, ease himself into its even deeper softness, pushed back an errant branch that blocked his view –

And froze at what he saw.

His rigid position lasted only a moment however as Andile, unaware that he had stopped short, plowed into his back, toppling him forward, only to miss her own footing in the new patches of moss, and fell on top of him.

"Fuck!" she said – then slowly pushed herself up and off the man, and saw the reason for his abrupt immobilization.

"Fuck," she repeated – but this time there was a hushed reverence in her irreverent word.

"Indeed," Picard agreed as he slowly sat up.

For several moments the two sat, wordlessly staring.

He should have expected to find something like this, he told himself later; he should have known that old volcanic ridges often eroded into spectacular valleys with awesome waterfalls at their heads, spewing water from reservoirs deep within their depths into glimmering cascade that pooled beneath, filling the valley with fine mist, creating a central of crystal clear water that split the valley floor in two.

Some of the falling water hit closer to the base of the falls, landing on a stone shelf, deadening the roar to a faint thrum even as it shattered into a fine mist that created a thick haze at the bottom of the fall; the mist rose on currents of air driven by the sun-warmed rocks only to fall as downdrafts from the fall carried them back down again.

Catching the sunlight that came over the top of the outcropping, the water acted as millions of miniscule prisms, creating rainbows that constantly changed in shape and location and size.

Wherever the mist landed, plants grew in perfusion: deep and dark green mosses covered the ground, trees clinging precariously to the steep valleys walls, their branches reaching over the central plain, snatching at every drop of moisture they could reach, while vines hung from their branches – and everywhere, flowers blossomed in exclamations of color both brilliant and subtle.

It was beautiful, it was stunning – but for the moment, all he truly saw was...

Water. Everywhere.

Without a sound, Andile pushed to her feet, dropped her pack, raced to the stream's edge and threw herself on the ground, plunging her hands into the fluid and raising them to her lips.

Picard opened his mouth to call out a warning – then stopped.

If this wasn't potable water, then it didn't matter what it was; if it was water, they lived; if it wasn't, they – or at least he – had but a few hours left – and shortening that demise might well be the better decision.

Following his companion's lead, he loosed his pack, then joined her as she lay on the grounds at the water's edge.

Even as he stretched out beside her, she scooped a second handful of water into her mouth and swallowed, then turned to grin at him.

"It's water. Fresh water," she added, then turned back to the pool, drawing up a double handful of the precious liquid, downing it greedily.

He reached out and scooped a handful of the clear fluid into his own mouth.

It was water. Cool, delicious, reviving water. Never had anything, not even his family's own wines, tasted as delicious as this did now.

He scooped up another handful, gulped it down – then reached out, grabbing Andile's hand as she reached her hands in again.

"Not too fast," he cautioned. "We can't afford to become sick again," he reminded her.

She nodded, using the handful she had to wash the caked salt from her face instead, then ladled one more scoop over her head.

Sated for the moment, she rolled on her back, stared up at the thick forest that hung high over the waterfall – and laughed.

"Gods!" she laughed. "Gods! I thought we were dead there, Picard! I only wanted to come around that ledge because I didn't want to die in the sun!"

He took a second, smaller sip of the fluid, washed his own face, then rolled over as well. "We were close enough," he agreed soberly – then turned to her. "I'm sorry. I misjudged the terrain," he said apologetically. "I thought..."

"I know what you thought," she said – then rolled onto her side, looking at him. "You thought you made the right decision. You didn't. We almost died... but we didn't. Welcome to my life, Jean-Luc," she said – then pushed herself up to her feet.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm making camp," she announced, aiming for the bag she had dropped moments before, opening the fasteners, the unceremoniously dumping the contents on the ground. Ferreting through the pile, she began to pull out what few clothes, towels and blankets they had, then bundled them up and began to walk away.

"Laundry," she announced simply – then stopped, looked at him and added, "Take those off."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Take your clothes off so I can wash them," she repeated – then sighed as he reddened. "Don't be a prude," she explained in exasperation. "I'm not interested in your body. I just want to get some of this filth off of our clothes!"

"That won't be necessary," he replied quickly.

Her mouth dropped in astonishment. "Not necessary? By the gods, Picard, have you been downwind of yourself lately?!"

"I only meant that I am fully capable of doing my own laundry, Dee," he protested.

She rolled her eyes then affixed him with a brutal gaze. "Let me explain this to you, Picard. You said that when we found water, we could make camp for the rest of the day. Well, we've found water – and I really want to make camp, put up my very sore feet and just sit for one evening. But if you think I can relax for one nano-second with your stench floating about, you are severely mistaken.

"So either get your clothes and yourself clean – or at least cleaner – or I will do it for you, and your modesty be damned," she growled, then spun away and stalked downstream.

For a moment he watched her, too stunned to respond – then sighed and began to unlace his boots. She was, of course, quite right; they were both filthy and stinking – and she had every right to expect a stench-free tent when there was so ready a solution to both problems.

She had even done him the courtesy of leaving so that he could have some privacy as he washed, he added, realizing why she had taken herself – and her laundry – away from him.

Still, he thought, this was... demeaning, he decided at last. Humiliating. Stripping down in public... All right, so the nearest sentient being – excluding Dee – was the better part of a week's hike away, and by no stretch of the imagination could this remote spot be considered public, he conceded – but Starfleet admirals do not go striding about on strange planets in the altogether, he announced silently as he removed his other boot.

Hell, we barely go naked in the privacy of our own apartments, he added, managing a wry grin at the realization. Uniforms by day, pyjamas by night, always dressed enough to be able to respond to an emergency message without risk of embarrassing one's self or one's caller. It was a wonder we aren't expected to shower in our clothes!

He grinned to himself, remember his first years as a captain, remembering how he had trained himself to change from one set of clothes to another in as little time as possible, lest an emergency call at exactly the wrong moment and catch him half-clothed!

Youth, he sighed, half embarrassed, half nostalgic. Fortunately that sense of frantic urgency hadn't lasted too long, he reminded himself, but even so, he never lost it completely, never really yielding to the temptation to risk being caught unprepared for duty.

True, I compromised with sleep shorts only for the last ten years – but only when I had a robe nearby, he added hastily, trying to justify his actions to himself.

He pulled off his shirt. So when was the last time I slept in the nude? he asked himself. Unfastening his pants he mused, not in years; hell, not in decades, he added as he dropped the mid-caked trousers to the ground; certainly not since before my Academy days, he added, excluding those certain occasions when any form of sleepwear might have interfered with the night's activities, he added with a grin as he slipped out of the remainder of his clothes.

And how long ago was that, he asked himself with an equally dry sense of humor. Years? Decades?

Years, he knew; yet another part of my life that time has taken from me.

And that I've let it take, he added.

Still, I'm not _that_ old, he told himself.

Glancing down at his body, he took a moment for a frank evaluation.

Overall, he thought, not too bad – then gave a sigh.

Not too bad – for an eighty year old man.

This is why I don't go about naked, he thought to himself; it's got nothing to do with propriety or being ready for duty or emergency calls in the middle of the night; it's because I don't enjoy being reminded that I am old – and getting older.

Still...

He looked at himself.

My skin – well, he thought as he looked at himself, not nearly as pale or as flabby – or as wrinkled - as I had feared, the firm flesh a testament to a carefully watched diet, the golden color on his arms and shoulders displaying the effects of the brief exposure to the sun of this world. A few more hours exposure, even in this leaf dappled amount, and one might not know I've spent the last few years inside an office in Starfleet Command, he thought with a smile.

As for muscles... well, perhaps they weren't as toned as they had been when I was twenty – but the efforts of the last few weeks of work were definitely obvious; he flexed one arm, watching the bicep bulge appreciably, then looked down at his stomach, noting the unmistakable delineation of the abdominal muscles there. Clearly, his regular work at the gym still had some benefits, he chimed with pleasure.

He glanced behind him – and sighed. Why did the Picard men lose their posteriors as they grew older? he asked himself unhappily, remembering how his grandfather and his uncles had looked at his age – and realizing the same fate lay in wait for him. Not that his backside had absented him completely – not yet - but there was no question that it was smaller than it had once been, an all-too-clear sign of his advancing age as well as his genetics.

He glanced up, risking a quick glance at his departed companion, confirming that she had not observed his moment of self-inspection – but to his infinite relief he realized that she was paying him no attention whatsoever.

Instead, she was working.

As I should be, he chided himself.

Bundling up his clothes, he carried them to the edge of the stream, then walked down it a short way until it grew shallow enough for him to wade across.

Stepping into its depth, he discovered that the stream rested in a fairly wide channel carved out of the same volcanic rock as the rest of the valley, with water moving quickly enough to prevent any dirt or silt from accumulating on the bottom – but fast enough he added, to sweep away his clothes should they not be weighted down.

He clambered out of the water and began to hunt for some rocks and stones to serve as weights for his laundry; finding several, he carried them to the water's edge, lowered himself back into the stream, then weighed the clothes down with the stones - though he felt that any garment as heavy with dirt and mud as these clothes were would have no business floating at all.

The clothes, however, seemed to have a different plan; even with the rocks atop them, they seemed resolved to work their way free of the heavy weights. He exited the stream again, and found a several more stones to serve as ballast for his laundry.

He started to re-enter the water – then stopped; if they weren't enough, he would have to climb out again to get additional stones – and the edge of the stream was growing slippery from his trips in and our of the water.

Instead, he gauged the location of the clothes, trying to allow for the refraction of the light on the water, tried to gauge the effect of the current on the weight – and tossed in the rock.

It splashed into the water with a satisfy wash of spray but missed the target; trying again, Picard came closer with his second attempt – but the clothes didn't seem all that secure, he decided.

A few more stones – and it was no longer a matter of weighing down the clothes as much as it was a game of seeing how close he could come to an imaginary target.

The seam at the shoulder, he murmured to himself, pitching a heavy black stone into the water – and now the right hem of my pants...

_Having fun?_

He started, having lost himself in the moment and the game, spun to face his accuser, then realized he was undressed.

His hands darted down protectively, even as he realized that he was still quite alone.

_Yes, I am having fun,_ he replied petulantly, trying to non-chalantly lower himself back into the water.

He heard her laugh, the sound as soft and melodic as it had been when he had first heard it, more than sixty years ago, even though the sound existed only in his mind.

_Don't worry, Picard; I'm not peeking,_ she told him. _I spent two months in your bed and never peeked then; I'm not about to start now._

_I wore pyjamas when we shared a bed on the Enterprise,_ he reminded her.

_True,_ she conceded _although I can be very determined when I want to be; if I had wanted to peek, I would have found a way._

He nodded to himself – then felt a hint of his earlier playfulness return. _Then you decided it wasn't worth the effort?_ he teased.

_I was rather ill at the time, as you may remember,_ she said.

_What I remember,_ he thought as he slowly waded upstream toward the pool beneath the waterfall, _was that you managed to crawl from Ten Forward back to Sickbay – and without assistance – as well as to write and execute an elaborate holodeck program._

_I was attempting to kill myself, Jean-Luc,_ she reminded him. _It took priority. And in any case, that was before I started sleeping with you._

_My point exactly; you were able to do all that – but incapable of expending that tiny amount more to satisfy your curiosity?_

She sighed, a smart retort on the edge of her thoughts – then stopped herself.

_Jean-Luc, we were both in a position of being emotionally fragile. You and Beverly, me and Data... by the time I was strong enough to have found the wherewithal for 'peeking', I would have been strong enough to have let it go forward from there – but neither of us were ready for that._

He stopped for a moment, remembering one night – then chased that thought, that memory, that hurt, from his mind.

_Go swim,_ she told him softly. _These clothes are clean enough for now – but I'm going to need to put them in the sun to dry._

Her thoughts fell silent as she closed the path of communication between them, leaving him to memories he had thought long ago forgotten.

As they should be, he added, then pushed forward against the current until he felt the bottom of the stream fall away. Diving forward, he launched himself into the depths of the pool that had formed at the base of the waterfall.

It was not an idyllic place, he thought as he pushed his against the current that moved toward the streambed, seeking out the calmer waters in the center of the pool; there were lovelier ponds in lovelier locations, formed by waterfalls that were far higher and more beautiful; pools that were filled with waters that bubbled and frothed and foamed around the occupants in effervescent clouds, pools filled with fish that swam alongside the visitors, silky scales teasing innocently, while scents of flowers exotic and unfamiliar filled the air.

There were even pools of human and alien design that were far more refreshing, more invigorating, more exciting than this overgrown puddle in which he now swam – but at this moment, he wouldn't trade any of his experiences of the last eighty years for the moment he was enjoying now.

The water, which hadn't been overly cool to the tongue, proved to be cool enough to be both invigorating and refreshing to the rest of his body as he paddled about. Moving around, he felt a warm upwelling in one spot that suggested an underground thermal spring; moving toward the fall, he realized the water washing out from within the stone walls was indeed deliciously cool.

With a few easy strokes, he moved back to the center of the pool, knifed his body forward and dove for the depths.

Twenty meters? he guessed – maybe more, he amended as the water's pressure pushed against his body. Whatever it was, it was beyond his ability to reach; feeling a growing need to breathe, he kicked his way to the surface – then dove into the waters once again.

However deep it might be, the water was crystal clear. Even at his greatest depth he could reach, the sunlight that had filtered through the trees overhead was still quite visible; he could clearly see the boulders and depressions that marked where the pool had been eroded from the rock the made up the valley floor.

The pool had been some long years in the making, he thought – although it would take a geologist and a tricorder to give him an accurate idea of how long this fall had been here.

For a moment he considered returning to the surface, leaving the water, fishing his own tricorder, and working on the calculation – then let the idea float away. It didn't really matter.

A sense of mellow relaxation washed over him as he came to that realization – as did a slight tightening of his chest. Knowing it was time to surface, he glanced about, found the tell-tale schlieren of the thermal spring and moved to it, letting the rising warm water carry him aloft, using only the easiest of kicks to assist the pool in its works.

Breaking the surface, he drew in a deep breath, let his feet rise on the last of the spring's flow, and allowed himself the luxury of simply floating on the surface of this delightful pool.

"Hi."

It took Picard a moment to realize that the words were spoken this time rather than being projected into his mind; it took a moment longer to realize that he was still in the same state of undress – and a moment further to understand that, at this moment, he didn't care.

He opened his eyes, found his companion, and smiled. "And hello to you," he replied to the woman who was sitting on the edge of the pool, her feet and legs dangling in the water. "Coming in?"

"Not while you're in there," Andile answered. "I don't want to be accused of unsolicited peeking," she added with a smile.

"Then I'm afraid we're at a bit of an impasse, as I'll need to get out of here before you can enter – and I can't do so while you're sitting there."

"Which is why I'm going to leave; I just wanted to let you know that I put some of your clothes over there," she said, pointing toward where they had lefts their bags. "They aren't completely dry, but if we're going to set up camp and prepare some food before the day is out, you're going to have to make do with those," she added.

Picard stared at her, astounded that she had managed to do so much during such a brief time – then realized with a start that the time hadn't been so brief.

Although the trees blocked most of the intense sun, there was no mistaking that the light was substantially brighter than it had been when he first entered the water; somehow, some when, the late morning of their arrival had become the early afternoon.

"I didn't fall asleep," he protested to no one.

Andile grinned back. "No, you did something far more un-admiral-like: you relaxed. I'd like to as well – but one of us has to figure out where to set up the tent and what we're going to eat."

"That would be me," he replied.

"That would, indeed, be you," she agreed. "So I'm going to put these clothes in the sun to dry while you get dressed, then I'm going in for a swim." She rose to her feet. "Five minutes, Picard, then I'll be back, and if you're not dressed, any peeking that happens will be your fault."

From his position, below the edge of the water, she was out of his line of sight within seconds; still he gave her a full minute to remove herself before he pulled himself out of the water.

As it had so many years before, the ability to dress quickly paid off – though, he admitted, changing into slightly damp clothes was always more problematic than changing into dry ones. Garments stuck, refusing to be eased over his body smoothly, clinging damply against his still wet flesh... But they were clean.

Feeling far more human than he had in days, he followed Andile's path down the stream, spying the wet bank where she had stood while submerging the first load of their combined laundry, deciding from the amount of water that still remind on the shore that she, too, had found some degree of amusement in trying to keep the clothes weighed down under the water.

The wet bank, however, reminded him of the ambient humidity in this valley. It was refreshing now, but in the early hours of the morning, the dampness would prove chilling.

He continued downstream for a distance, turning to look back only once, as he heard a shriek of joy and a splash of water – clear evidence that Andile was taking her turn in the depths beneath the waterfall.

After some time, he found that the stream had begun to move away from one of the valleys walls, leaving a substantially dryer plain. The thick moss that covered the valley floor was still present, but thinner here: still thick enough to make a most comfortable mattress beneath them at night, but not so thick that they it wouldn't hold the tent supports.

If they needed the tent, Picard added; without the high humidity of the falls filling the air, the night should prove more than comfortable enough even without any additional protection.

That task disposed of, however, would mean that he would be obliged to provide them with a far more elaborate dinner, he told himself; pleased with his finds, he began to walk back toward the valley entrance, slowly examining the various flora that filled the rocky walls.

By the time he reached the waterfall's base, he had found more than enough of the local plants to turn their prepackaged meals into something far tastier. Delighted with his finds, he moved toward where his companion stood – and stopped.

She was... lovely. Standing to one side of the waterfall, she stood in the fine spray that filled the air, the sunlight catching on the droplets, and showering her in the light of a million diamonds.

He had seen her dressed that way once before, years ago, when she had attended Deanna and Will's engagement party, her gown a cascade of glitter, gems and jewels that had reminded him of the beauty she had been when they had first met.

Now, the finery was gone; dressed nothing but her Starfleet issue underwear, her apparel was a far cry from the gown she had worn that night – but she was, he thought, no less beautiful.

He watched her for a moment as she worked, letting the spray from the fountain's periphery pour over her as she combed her fingers through her long hair, apparently trying to free the raven locks from the tangles that filled it – and clearly having no luck.

Looking up, she looked at him plaintively. "Help."

For a moment, he hesitated – then set down his newly harvested groceries and moved to his friend's side.

"It's a mess," she grumbled as he reached her. "Tiron was right; I make a lousy Romulan; my hair's always a disaster..."

"At least you have hair," he reminded her. "Turn around," he ordered, then began to try to rake his fingers through the knotted locks, letting the flowing water help ease the tresses apart.

It was lovely hair, he thought; thick, black tresses that reached to just below her shoulders... He remembered the first time he had seen her, at the Academy marathon, when she had been serving water – and advice – to the runners; he remembered her face, her smile, her admonishments – and her hair, long and thick, reaching then to well below her very attractive and shapely hips.

He had had more than a few intensely erotic dreams about that hair and those hips – though when he learned she was one of the Academy's professors and not a fellow student, the dreams had been quickly repressed.

For a time, he added, smiling to himself.

Despite himself, he took a moment to glance down at those same hips. It was amazing, he mused as he studied her backside, how the generic, short-like underpants she wore were anything but generic on her; the ribbed fabric clung tightly to her skin, hugging to every curve, every cleft...

Lovely, he thought. Quite lovely.

"Jean-Luc?"

Startled, he looked up, suddenly realizing that she had turned her head to look at him, probably curious as to why he had stopped helping her untangle her hair – and had caught him looking at her.

Appalled at his behavior, he opened his mouth to apologize - but she stopped him before he could begin.

"Don't apologize," she said softly. "Please. It's been a long time – longer than you could know or understand – since anyone thought I was... lovely."

He opened his mouth to explain, to tell her that she was lovely, that so many people who knew her thought she was lovely, that many more, who had only seen her in passing would have agreed with that sentiment... but he stopped himself before he could utter a word.

A obvious platitude was not what she wanted, he knew, nor was the affirmation of the nameless and faceless masses; what she wanted was both simple and complex: reassurance from the one person who had been a constant in the last sixty years of her life.

Someone she knew, someone she trusted... someone she loved.

As he loved her.

Sometimes, he thought, sometimes... Sometimes we all need so desperately to be loved.

He studied her for a long moment, uncertain – then took her shoulders and slowly turned her to face him.

With unabashed openness, he studied her, his eyes taking in every curve, starting from her delicate feet, up her long legs... He smiled wondering how someone so short could have such long legs – then let his smile fade as he took in the curves of her hips, hinted at yet hidden by the generic underwear that insisted on clinging so deliciously. The undershirt she wore clung with equal tenacity, revealing a belly that was hard and flat yet soft and curving, flaring out as it reached her breasts.

He drew in a sharp breath as he studied the rounded globes that were barely concealed by the thin fabric of her shirt. Intellectually, he knew they weren't very large; if he were to reach out and touch one, it would not even fill his hand – but against the background of her delicate frame, they were...

Magnificent.

His eyes continued to move higher, savoring the breadth of her shoulders, the soft indentation at the base of her throat, the curve of her chin, the angle of her high cheekbones, the slant of her dark brown eyes, shining with intelligence and wisdom, until he returned to where he had begun, with her long, raven hair.

She was beautiful, he thought.

Andile trembled.

"Cold?" he asked, knowing, as she did, that her trembling had a far different source – but knowing that the game had certain rules by which it must be played.

"I'm standing in a waterfall," she pointed out.

Taking her hand, he pulled her away from the spray – but even out of the water's way, she still trembled.

"It's these clothes," she told him. "They're all wet."

"Then perhaps you should take them off," he suggested softly.

She looked up, studying him, trying to confirm what she had suspected.

"Perhaps I should," she agreed.

"Would you like some help?" he asked, his baritone voice soft and low.

She looked at him for a long time, then nodded slowly. "If you wouldn't mind?"

"It would be my pleasure," he assured her.

Picard studied her, considering what he was about to, what they were both about to do, then pulled her close to him.

Reaching beneath her chin, he raised her face to his, a little startled by seeing her eyes open, staring at him – then lowered his lips to hers.

The kiss was warm, sweet, deep – delicious, he thought, as delicious as the first kiss they had shared years before on the floor of Dixon Hill's office. And now, as then, he felt the heat of the kiss rapidly building, his need for her growing, his desire building – a feeling he had thought he had forsaken so long ago; he felt her press herself to him, equally hungry, needing, willing – then felt her push herself away.

Before he could protest, she took his hands in hers, guiding them to the bottom of her shirt; understanding the wordless command, he followed her instructions, easing the sodden shirt up with excruciating slowness, watching the fabric slowly peel back, revealing a body of golden brown skin and exquisitely full breasts adorned by pink nipples that tightened as they were brushed by the cool breeze.

He reached a hand beneath one of the globes, savoring the feel of its weight, then lowered his mouth to taste her, feel her gasp as he suckled softly, then moved to greet the other breast in the same manner. Hearing her soft groan, he straightened again, moving back to her lips, pressing the kiss once more.

This time, he was the first to break away, pulling away from her mouth, then placing a line of gentle kisses down the center of her body: her chin, her throat, the hollow at its base, a stop to caress each breast once again, then a kiss in the cleft between them, the top of her belly, her navel...

He sank to his knees, his fingers reaching to the band that marked the top the shorts she wore, then slowly eased them down her long legs, then pressed a kiss into their juncture, earning a soft cry of pleasure in reward for his actions.

The cry grew louder as the kiss deepened until she called out as he began to slowly taste her; she pulled away, almost tripping as she stumbled against the garments that tangled at her feet.

He caught her, then eased her down until she was kneeling before him, pulling him against her as they kissed – then felt her pull away, looking down at his chest and trousers.

"Oh, now _you're_ all wet," she sighed sorrowfully.

"Indeed."

"You really should get out of those clothes," she added.

"I should," he agreed.

"Would you like some help?"

"Indeed."

As before, she pulled him close to her for a kiss, feeling his hands run over her body, feeling her own respond hungrily – then felt him grasp her waist, pulling her to him...

And suddenly releasing her.

Startled, she looked at him, stricken by the expression on his face.

"Dee... Maybe this isn't a good idea..."

Stunned, she shook her head, shocked, hurt.

"Jean-Luc..."

"I... I mean..."

By God, he thought to himself, how do I say this?

Humiliated, he looked down, shaking his head. This had never been a problem before; indeed, it had been a joy, a delight, even a matter of surprise and astonishment... but never a problem.

But, he thought, remembering the feeling of his hands around Andile's so very narrow waist, he had never been with someone who was so... tiny... before.

And he...

Was not.

"Dee..." he managed at long last, "I... don't want to hurt you."

She frowned, confused. "You're not going to hurt me, Jean-Luc; this is just a holiday fling, no holds on one another, no obligation, just a little sex between two friends," she said.

"That's not what I mean," he said, embarrassed.

"Then... what?" she pressed.

Chagrined beyond words, he took her hand, guiding it to the front of his trousers and allowed her to discover the source of his concern.

But rather than pulling back in horror or shock, she let her hand rest there for a moment – then began to caress him slowly, her hand feeling out the length and width of her would-be adversary.

It was his opportunity to give a soft groan of pleasure as she touched him – but even so, he knew this was still an ill-advised idea.

"I don't want to hurt you," he repeated miserably.

"Don't give yourself airs, Picard. Women manage to give birth to infants all the time; you're nowhere near that big," she informed him, although, she admitted to herself, he was big enough to make his concern at least somewhat justified. But if they went slowly for a while...

Somehow, she added, feeling him stiffen further beneath her grasp, going slow might just be his forte. Long, slow foreplay...

She purred at the thought, then removed her hand, anxious to help him to undress – then reached for him once again, feeling him pull her into his embrace once again.

When he finally released her, she fell against him, dazed and short of breath.

"Oh, my," she whispered. "You do that rather well, you know."

"Of course. I'm French," he reminded her proudly – then lowered his mouth to hers, his hand reaching between her legs, his fingers caressing her, teasing her until she cried out again, then gently escorted her to the ground.

Leaning over her body, he continued the kiss, then began to move his lips down her body once more, only to feel her pull away.

"I thought you said you don't do this anymore," she teased.

"Apparently I was wrong," he replied, then lowered his lips back to hers.


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

Beverly brushed the annoying strand of hair from her face – again! - secured it in the clip that held the rest of her hair at the base of her neck, and wondered if Jean-Luc had any idea how truly fortunate he was not to have to deal with the nuisance of having hair.

Admitted, she thought, he rarely commented on his lack of hair, but she knew that being bald truly bothered him; that he had decided that a quirk of genetic fate somehow reflected negatively upon him; that it was his fault that his father, and his father's father – and probably a hundred generations of Picard men before him – had all lost their hair before the age of forty.

Ego, she grumbled silently; male egos. As if their hair affected their masculinity – or their attractiveness – she added. If only they knew how good they looked... well, how good most of them looked... all right, she conceded, how good _he_ looked without hair... he would stop being so concerned – and realize how fortunate he was not to have to deal with the damned stuff.

Tucking the same errant strand behind her ear this time, hoping it would stay in place, she wondered why she was being so sorely afflicted by her unruly locks.

Look at Worf, she thought: his hair stayed in place, tied securely with a piece of tanned targ hide lacing. And Data and B-4's hair never got out of place, she added – then conceded, except it wasn't hair, of course, but a chemical construct that had been manufactured to lay down smoothly at all times and in all conditions.

But even S'bey and the rest of the children seemed to be unafflicted by unmanageable manes! she complained silently. Thirty children – and not a hair out of place, she told herself. You would think with years of malnutrition and no hygiene, they would have locks sticking out at all angles, snarled and matted... but S'bey, Data and B-4 had managed not only to get them washed and dressed in clean clothes, but they had managed to get their hair into an equally tidy state.

Leaving her the only one on the Fujiwara who looked like they just got out of bed, she thought, twisting the same strand savagely, trying to force it into submission, snaring it in the clip once more – only to feel it slide loose once again.

Of course I look like I just got out of bed – because I did! she conceded with a sigh; having been awake for more than three days with only the briefest of respites had finally taken its toll on her. Once assured that the children were safe and reasonably comfortable, that both of her patients were doing well, and that Worf was securely in charge of the ship, she had lost the fight with her exhaustion.

She vaguely remembered Data escorting her to one of the small personal rooms on the Fujiwara, dimly recalled laying down on the bed – and then nothing until an hour ago, when she had awakened, still dressed in her uniform and lab coat – and her already disheveled hair now a complete mass of tangles and snarls, clear evidence of how long she must have slept.

For a moment, she had panicked upon awakening – then reminded herself that Data would have called her if the children or the two pregnant girls had needed her attentions – then lay back on the bed, allowing herself the luxury of a few minutes of thought before she forced herself from the bed.

This wasn't how I had intended to spend this leave, she thought; I had intended to spend it with Jean-Luc...

No, she corrected herself a moment later; that's what I wanted to do. What I did was give in to my fears about us, and do what I always do: run away from him. Run away from the possibility of committing to a relationship.

Why? she asked herself wordlessly. I used to think that it was because I was afraid of losing him, afraid that he would go off on some damned, dangerous mission – and I would find him in my Sickbay, and not be able to save him... but not now, she added.

He's an admiral now, and the Admiralty, in their infinite wisdom and vindictiveness, has seen fit to keep him tied to a desk for the last few years. The only danger he's seen since his promotion was the danger of having his bottom become permanently affixed to his chair! she thought.

And... she slowly admitted, that was never the real fear; I wasn't as afraid of losing him to death, as I was of just losing him.

As long as we didn't commit to each other, as long as we held ourselves at arm's length, we both had the fantasy of a relationship without the reality; I could see him as the handsome, virile captain he was – and not have to accept that he was a human underneath – a human who burped, or left the toilet seat up, or drooled in his sleep...

Beverly smiled at the possibilities racing through her mind's eye; Jean-Luc Picard, one of Starfleet's most highly decorated and respected officers... scratching himself.

Picking his nose.

Farting.

She chuckled aloud.

No, she thought, that's not what either of us wanted; we wanted the fiction, not the reality. So when the chance to make it real finally came along – we both ran like hell.

Well, I ran, she admitted.

Jean-Luc never had to run, because I was running fast enough for both of us.

Why? she asked herself. Jack was a wonderful man – but he was no saint, no flawless paragon of manhood – and yet I loved him. I committed myself to a life with him - happily. And yet I couldn't even give Jean-Luc a chance?

Maybe because it wasn't his flaws that scared me, she realized as she stared at the ceiling above her.

Maybe it was my flaws.

Maybe I didn't want him to find out how imperfect I am, she thought.

She had seen the image of her that he carried in his mind when the had been connected on Kes/Prytt; she had seen how he viewed her – the brilliant physician, the loving mother, the passionate wife, the dedicated officer – but no where in that image had been a picture of what the real woman she was.

Maybe I wanted to remain the perfect image rather than the flawed being I am; maybe I wanted to remain his fantasy – and never let him discover that I pick my nose and drool in my sleep.

Or discovering that I look like hell in the morning, she added, raising a hand to her disheveled hair.

With a sigh she eased herself from the bed, made her way to the bathroom – and groaned as she looked at herself in the mirror.

Damned hair, she grumbled, wondering once again if Jean-Luc had any idea how fortunate he truly was.

Damned sonic showers, she added a few moments later.

Intellectually, she knew full well that a sonic shower would leave her as clean – or cleaner! – than would a traditional shower that used water and required soap. She also knew – logically – that a ship the size of the Fujiwara could not possibly hold sufficient water to tend to the bathing and drinking needs of the thirty-some people aboard, let alone the space and equipment needed to reclaim and purify that water. She even knew that the sonic waves would help to loosen the knots and snarls that had formed in her hair, making it easier to brush when she finally stepped out of the confined area... but none of that meant she had to like the damned things.

Showers should involve water – hot and lots of it! – she thought as she hit the control button and felt the first waves of noiseless sound play over her body; showers should involve soap and bubbles and lovely scents.

All right, so a proper shower would also leave you soaking wet, and in need of a towel – or two – which you would then have to put through the recycler, and in need of lotion, because you had spent so long under the hot water that your skin had dried out, and with tangled hair that would usually refuse to cooperate when it dried, so you'd have to spend another hour making it look half-way decent... but even so, she insisted wordlessly, a shower left you feeling like you had bathed.

She turned off the control switch, looked down at herself – and sighed at the real truth: after a real shower, you felt awake. Maybe you weren't happy about that fact, but you were awake.

Here there was no shower, no hot water – and no coffee!

Grumbling quietly, she pulled on her duty uniform, pulled the requisite lab coat over it, and stumbled into the narrow hallway and toward the ship's command area.

As the door slid open, an overly-alert Klingon face turned to meet hers. Identifying the entrant, the tense expression faded to one of mere paranoid caution.

"Everything all right up here, Mr. Worf?" she asked worriedly, not certain if there was a reason for his concern, or if it was simply a matter of his true nature showing through once again.

Worf gave his display board a quick review before answering – as though something might have changed in the brief moment he had turned his head, she thought, amused.

"Yes," he conceded. "I have completed a series of unscheduled course changes that should obscure our path and intended destination. It is unlikely that a Starfleet vessel would be able to find us prior to our rendezvous with Tiron's ship," he said.

"Of course, they wouldn't have to search for us," she reminded him, "seeing that Tiron had to get clearance to travel through Federation space," she pointed out. "They know where he is, and where he is going. All they have to do is wait for us."

Worf looked back at the doctor – and managed a very cunning, very Klingon, smile. "That was also the Breen's belief, four years ago, Doctor," he reminded her.

She frowned in puzzlement – then nodded, remembering the events that had delayed the Breen's arrival at the site where the Enterprise had become disabled; to the surprise of the Breen – and of Ambassador Tillerman, who had helped sabotage the ship, the Enterprise had come to a stop light years ahead of the intended location, forcing the Breen to execute a time-consuming search for them – and granting them time to prepare themselves for their arrival; indeed, they had almost had enough time to execute their escape.

Almost.

Beverly suspected that Worf would not let that error be repeated.

"Tiron's slowed down then?" she asked.

Worf nodded. "Though he has been granted clearance to rendezvous with this ship, he must limit himself to the planned route. The speed he utilizes on that path, however, is not specified in the flight plan."

"So he's slowing down and we've sped up – and we'll be meeting at a different time and place than originally planned," she concluded, nodding approvingly at the idea.

"Yes. Captain Riker hinted at just such a possibility..."

"But he didn't order it," she finished.

"Indeed. If he knew our intentions, he could be forced to reveal them; however, his ignorance of the details should help preserve his command – and our lives."

"Should Czymszczak send someone after us," Beverly countered. "You know, Worf, it's just possible that Czymszczak will simply give up on this idea once he realizes it's going to be difficult to accomplish – and possibly gain him nothing," she pointed out.

"It is also possible, Doctor," Worf replied, "that it will snow on Q'onos. Both are, however, unlikely. Admiral Czymszczak needs to augment his political position in the Federation – and helping to support a group of refugee children might well be the issue to do that. But if he can not play the hero, he may need to find another to put his name at the forefront once again – and he could do that equally well by pointing out how Captain Riker and Admiral Picard's failure to assist the refugees imperiled the Cardassian/Federation alliance."

"Worf," Beverly replied, "there is no Cardassian/Federation alliance."

"A matter which Czymszczak could lay at the feet of the captain and the admiral," he countered. "Indeed, if he can not interrogate the children about what has happened, he could decide to follow Admiral Picard to Samarrasia IV and question him about his involvement in the events – and that, Doctor, would lead to far more serious consequences than his interception of our vessel," he reminded her... unnecessarily.

Meaning that we need to remain the more accessible victim, she told herself – while remaining uncaught. Because if he does catch us, and anyone even hints that Andile was here...

Then they're both dead, she knew. Jean-Luc would be up on charges, his career and his reputation over – and Dee...

Dee would never make it to trial. Czymszczak would see to that. A mysterious ailment, a small accident... she would die, quietly and unnoticed – and anyone who dared to mention her name would suddenly find himself stationed on the other side of the quadrant – if Czymszczak let him live at all.

Damn him, Beverly muttered to herself. Damn him – and damn Jean-Luc as well! Why did he have to take _her_ down there with him?! Why couldn't he have just sent her back to Tiron?!

Because, she sighed, because he is Jean-Luc Picard – and she is his friend, and she needed his help.

And to Jean-Luc, Beverly sighed, there was no greater duty than friendship.

And there was no way, she added, that even Jean-Luc Picard could have guessed that Czymszczak would have decided that this was the opportunity he so desperately needed to take him on the next step in his career.

And even if he had known... He probably would have taken her with him as well, she sighed.

"Friendship dares," he had told her more than once, "or it is not friendship."

"How long until we reach Tiron's ship?" she asked.

"Four more days," he growled.

"You don't sound like you think that's enough time," she replied, hearing the concern in his low voice.

"It is not. We should be able to elude capture for that long – but once we have transferred the children to Ambassador Tiron, we will need to keep the Admiral's ship from reaching Tiron's vessel until they have had the chance to leave Federation space. Then – and only then – will we have achieved a degree of safety."

"Of course, there's nothing to keep Czymszczak from going back to Sammarassia IV when he realizes he's lost his prize," she reminded him.

"Unless, of course, Ambassador Tiron makes a very public note of thanks to the Admiral," Worf pointed out.

Beverly chuckled, but there was no humor in her tone. "Worf, Tiron hates Czymszczak; after what he did to Dee, he'll never publicly commend him..."

"Tiron is a honorable warrior," Worf interjected. "He has sworn to protect Cmdr. Andile to the extent of his life and his fortune; he will not hesitate to do whatever is necessary to preserve her life... or Admiral Picard's," he added.

"Worf," Beverly said with a smile, "you just said something nice about a Romulan."

The Klingon harrumphed at the remark, then turned his attention back to the console before him – but there was a stiffness to his movements that took her by surprise.

"I can take a shift if you'd like to get some sleep," she informed him.

"Later, perhaps," he said. "Mr. Data and I have designed several programs that may be needed should our attempts to elude the Admiral's ship prove insufficient. Once those programs have been installed, however..." he conceded.

"Just let me know when you're ready," she smiled. "In the meantime, I'm going to get a cup of coffee and check in on my patients."

Worf absently grunted his agreement, his attention immediately focusing once more on the programs he had been installing.

Exiting the small bridge, Beverly quickly found her way to a replicator station, called up a very large cup of coffee with a very generous measure of cream and sugar – which, despite her knowing that it was anything but a healthy meal, had been her breakfast for the last several years – took a generous sip of the mixture and sighed.

Jean-Luc wouldn't have approved her selection any more than her medical self did; while he had never been a aficionada of a large morning meal, he had still held that it was an ideal time to sit and organize one's self for the upcoming day, to plan for what was to come – and to spend a few minutes sharing the start of the day with her. A large cup of coffee, caught while running between patients and meetings would not have satisfied his requirements, she knew.

Of course, that didn't mean that they had both been equally guilty of doing just that, she added; too often, duty called – and equally often, they responded.

Duty, she sighed.

Duty, she repeated wordlessly, wondering.

How often did we escape from our lives, our selves, claiming that duty called us to do so – and how often did we simply use it as an excuse not to allow ourselves to get involved?

God knew it was an easy enough dodge for both of them; while it had its onerous obligations on their lives, it also spared them of the mundane habits that bogged down so many others.

Uniforms, for example; when they were on duty, there was no need to think about clothes: they had their uniforms that they were required to wear – so who needed to think about clothes, styles, fashions? Oh, it was fun enough, when time and place allowed for that type of indulgence – but it was never truly important, never necessary.

And who needed to think about some of the social niceties of their lives, when duty required her to be available to her patients whenever they needed her, and Jean-Luc to be available to his officers, his superiors – and half the quadrant - whenever they called for him? They could have made time for other things, of course – if they had chosen to do so; if it had been important enough to either or both of them.

And perhaps it had been important – but duty had been easier.

Safer.

Convenient.

Duty.

It had kept them together for so long, working side by side – but it had also allowed them to distance themselves from each other just as equally, captain and CMO. Friends... but nothing more. Duty didn't permit that.

It could have become something more, of course, and for a time, it almost had happened – but duty had called again, taking her away from the Enterprise, depositing her in Starfleet Medical. Jean-Luc had followed shortly thereafter, leaving the ship for the Admiralty – but somehow, even though they once more lived so very close to one another, their paths rarely met, the unending call of duty continuing to pull them in their own separate directions.

And we let it, she reminded herself.

She sipped at the coffee, silently berating fate – then berating herself for allowing it to take the upper hand without as much as a word of protest – then sighed, knowing that duty called to her once again.

Duty however, wasn't calling urgently. In the borrowed yacht, she was never far away from any part of the ship; even in the most dire of emergencies, she could have easily reached the children in a matter of minutes or seconds; even strolling at the leisurely pace she set for herself this morning, she reached the entrance to the converted hold before her coffee had a chance to cool to a more drinkable temperature – letting alone to grow cold.

She stepped toward the door activator – then stopped, sighed regretfully, and put the still full cup back in a nearby replicator receptacle. It had been a long time since she had been pregnant, but she still remembered – quite vividly – how repulsive the smell of coffee had been throughout her pregnancy. And while the two Cardassians girls might not have been sensitive to that particular scent, Beverly decided there was no reason to risk a reaction.

She watched as the mug faded into non-existence, tugged the errant strand of hair back into place, smoothed out her lab coat, and stepped up to the cargo hold door.

An eerie silence greeted her. After only one day, she had grown accustomed to not hearing the typical sounds of children playing that should have greeted her as the door opened – but the stillness was still disconcerting, an auditory reminder of how very different, how very deprived these children were. Somehow, she had thought that as they grew used to the idea of being safe, they would revert to acting as children normally behaved – but in that first day, she had realized that for these children, fear and terror were the norm; silence and stealth were how they lived.

How they survived.

It probably didn't help that their two primary caregivers – Data and B-4 – were equally quiet, their manners almost as reserved – and, she added worriedly, almost as wary.

Well, maybe not Data, she amended a moment later; Data may have been quiet in deference to the children's behavior, to keep from startling them needlessly – but when they had been away from the children, he had been as open – and as garrulous – as she had remembered from their years together on the Enterprise.

B-4, on the other hand, seemed anything but open – but then again, she added, she barely knew him; maybe his apparent caution toward her was nothing more than his typical manner with strangers. Or perhaps the answer was a simpler one, she considered: the android had spent most of the last four years with Jean-Luc, and Jean-Luc was nothing if not reserved – sometimes to a fault, she added knowingly. Perhaps B-4 had just adopted that mannerism, she mused, never realizing – or caring – that it would come across to others as being overly-cautious or even paranoid.

After all, paranoia, caution – even simple reservation – were behaviors that were emotion-based, she reminded herself – and B-4 did not have emotions.

Still, if they were to talk, even just between themselves, a little more than they were now, it might help the children to become accustomed to hearing voices and noises; in time, they might not jump and hide at every new noise.

In time, they might heal, she thought.

But that healing, if it were to happen, would take time, and she reminded herself, that she did not have with them. That would be the job for someone else: Tiron, Dee, whatever physicians and counselors they would have... For now, her concern was their immediate physical needs – and those of the two mothers-to be.

Pushing aside her long-term concerns for the children and focusing on the short term ones – though not too short-termed, she hoped fervently; try as they had to consider every possibility, there simply had been no way to equip the yacht for the delivery of two high risk babies to two high risk mothers.

Then again, she had no idea if Tiron was prepared for that possibility either, she added grimly. Rescuing these children from a desperate situation was a noble intention – but the reality was that it meant a commitment not just of money, but of months and years to see these children through the physical, psychological and emotional healing that would be necessary for their survival as functioning members of society... not to mention finding a society where they could exist, she thought.

In theory, Andile's idea had been well-intentioned – but had she any idea about how to execute it? Beverly asked herself. Did she have any idea what of the obligation she had made to these children – or how she was going to fulfill it?

Admittedly, the woman she had known four years before would have planned for every possible contingency, she reminded herself – but that woman would have never allowed herself to end up in a position of having to be rescued from a ship that had been nearly destroyed in the Bryona minefield, she added.

No, Beverly thought, something had happened to Andile, to change her from that woman to someone who acted less from careful thought than from desperation – and was that woman really capable of caring for these children?

But if not Dee, Beverly added, then who? – then let out a silent chuckle.

Apparently me, she realized, adding, at least for now.

Spying one of her charges seated with a small group of children at the far side of the hold, Beverly started toward them – then hastily stopped, knowing that they were still too suspicious, too sensitive to the presence of strangers to see her as anything but a threat; hoping to defuse their concern, she instead turned – slowly – and sought out a more welcoming face.

And quickly realized that of the thirty-five beings in this room, only one met that description.

"Data," she said with a calm she did not entirely feel as she moved toward the android who rose to greet her.

"Good morning, Doctor," he replied. "May I offer you some coffee?"

She smiled at the offer. "As much as I would love to accept, I think the girls might prefer it if I didn't," she explained.

Data gave her a puzzled look.

"Some women don't like the smell of coffee – or other strong scents - when they are pregnant," she explained. "It can be nauseating."

He gave her a look of curiosity and fascination. "Is that the cause of the 'morning sickness' that is often referenced in the early stages of pregnancy? An aversion to strong scents?"

Beverly smiled widely, then shook her head. "No; would that it was that easy to prevent morning sickness by simply controlling the smells we women encounter. No, Data, morning sickness is a combination of factors, including hormonal changes, pressure on the stomach, radical changes in blood glucose levels... the causes are myriad – and to make matters worse, not every woman experiences them."

"Did you?" he asked, still curious.

"For a while," she replied. "But it wasn't bad: Nana suggested that I keep some snacks at hand at all times, and east as soon as I started to feel the symptoms. That kept the worst of it at bay. After a few weeks it faded away – but from the day I conceived Wesley until they day he was born, I couldn't tolerate the smell of coffee. The day he was born, however, I immediate lost my distaste for it," she added.

The android nodded, considering this new information, then gave Beverly a perplexed look. "Coffee is not native to Cardassia Prime, Doctor. How, therefore, would you explain Mshara and Usmet's sensitivity to the miniscule concentration of airborne particulates of that substance?"

Despite herself, Beverly smiled once more, then shook her head. "I'm not saying they are sensitive to coffee, per se, Data; in fact, they probably wouldn't react to it at all. I'm just not about to subject them to anything that has the potential to make them sick just because I'd like a cup," she explained.

Data considered that for a moment, then nodded his head. "That is very considerate of you," he decided after a moment.

Beverly gave the android an equally perplexed – and somewhat hurt - look of her own. "Data, from my point of view, we haven't seen each other for four years – but from your position, our separation was only a few days. Do – did – you think of me as being a cruel person?" she asked softly.

"I did not," he replied instantly onto to add after a moment's hesitation, "I do not."

But a moment for an android was the equivalent of hours for a human, and Beverly knew it well.

Dear God, Beverly thought to herself, stunned; you had to think about it!

It took her a moment longer to realize the full import of his words.

"You don't," she repeated dully, "but someone else does?" she asked.

The android studied the physician for a moment, then cocked his head to one side. "As has been pointed out on multiple occasions, there has been a passage of events that have transpired without my knowledge or awareness," he reminded her.

"And...?" she pressed warily.

"In light of my... absence... from these events, I asked B-4 to inform me concerning what I missed."

"And...?" she pushed.

"And... events have occurred that, had I not had a previous working acquaintance with you, would lead me to believe that you were, to use your terminology, a cruel person," he admitted.

"Events? What events?" she insisted.

"B-4 has indicated that you... have caused the admiral severe emotional distress," Data replied, somewhat reluctantly.

"What?!" she protested angrily, even as she accepted the truths of the android's words.

"I do not mean to upset you, Doctor, but in the last four years, B-4 has become... close to the admiral," he concluded. "He has become exceptionally aware of the admiral's feelings on many matters."

"Close?" Beverly replied. "How close? Data, B-4 isn't jealous of us, is he?" she wondered.

"Jealousy is an emotion, Doctor," he reminded her, "and emotions are far beyond the abilities of B-4's positronic net at this time. But even as I was once not able to experience emotions, I did develop responses to those around me and situations that were present. B-4 is not less capable of developing similar reactions."

"And what situations did he develop reactions to?" Beverly asked somewhat bitterly.

"B-4 noted that every time you and the admiral were together, the admiral was was... happy. However, every time that you declined to accept an engagement, or, more significantly, accepted then later broke an engagement with the admiral, he became depressed and unhappy. As these latter events became more frequent, and the admiral's loneliness and despondency became more pervasive, B-4 came to the logical conclusion that you were the causative factor in these emotions in the admiral; that you were responsible for hurting him," he concluded simply.

"And thus he doesn't like me," Beverly realized.

Data cocked his head once again. "Dislike is also an emotion, Doctor," he reminded her. "B-4's assessment of you is purely quantitative. The amount of pain and the frequency of the occurrences were greater than the amount and frequency of the pleasure. Therefore, he concluded that you were not good for the admiral's well-being."

Beverly stared at the android for a long moment, stunned and shocked - then murmured, "Out of the mouth of babes."

Data raised his brows at the comment. "I do not believe that assessment to be accurate, Doctor; if the evidence we found regarding B-4's origins was accurate, he does, in fact, predate me - that is, my previous existence," he pointed out. "He is, technically, my older brother."

Despite herself, Beverly smiled. "The comment doesn't relate to age, Data, as much as to innocence, and the ability to see things without the veil of self-delusion. I did hurt him," she agreed softly, unhappily.

"And yourself," he pointed out.

Beverly glanced at him, surprised by the comment.

"Ginger once declined to grant me a second date because she claimed she did not wish to hurt me. In reality, she was actually punishing herself, inflicting pain upon herself that she somehow believed she deserved," Data told her. "When I explained it in those terms, I was able to convince her to alter that decision."

Beverly smiled despite herself knowing the effort involved into getting Andile to change her mind about anything - and grateful that's he did; it had given the two a few months of happiness that neither would have had otherwise.

Happiness that I am denying myself, she wondered - then looked at Data. "And you think I'm doing something similar?" she asked. "Deliberately making myself - and Jean-Luc - miserable, as some form of punishment?"

Data managed a very human smile. "When joy is yours for the asking and yet you decline to make such a request, all other possibilities must be considered."

"It's not always that easy, Data," she sighed plaintively.

He gave her a frank look. "With all due respect, Doctor, I returned from the dead to be with Ginger," he reminded her. "I would suggest that your task is not nearly as formidable. Now, I believe you would like to visit with the children?" he suggested.

Stunned into silence, she followed the android as he walked slowly toward the distant gathering, her thoughts racing - then stopping as she forced them back toward the task at hand, slapping a gentle welcoming smile on her face, preparing herself to care for these children, these patients.

My work, she thought; my duty.

For now, this was enough. There would be time to think about Data's words... later.


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter 40

She lay sprawled across his chest, one finger idly playing with the crisp grey hairs that covered it, the first rays of the morning sun slowly drying the sweat from their bodies. For his part, the immobility of bliss was only beginning to give way to conscious movement; he laboriously raised one arm, then lay it over her shoulders, his fingers slowly caressing the long strand of hair that flowed from her shoulder to lay across his chest.

It wasn't fatigue that slowed his movements; two days of little more than eating, sleeping, talking and sex had taken them past the weariness that had stained their souls for the last few years; instead his languid movements bespoke the state of relaxation - even serenity - that filled him.

For the first time in a long, long time, he was content just to lie here, beneath her, beneath the trees that softly rustled overhead, beneath the sun that was slowly beginning to warm them both.

For the first time in a long time, he was content to simply... be.

Slowly drawing his fingers through her hair, he raised his head slightly, kissed the top of hers - then gave a sigh and lay back.

Marvelous, he thought.

Glorious.

"I vote," she told his chest softly, "that we spend the rest of our trip here."

He managed a murmur of unprotesting acquiescence.

"Sleeping," she furthered.

He managed another approving sound.

"Swimming."

The approval grew slightly louder.

"Relaxing."

"Mmmm."

"Having sex."

There was no sound this time, but she could feel the silent chuckle of laughter in his chest even as she felt the muscles of his face tighten in a smile.

"Eating," she added finally.

"We finished the last of the rations last night," he answered quietly.

"We can forage."

"If we take any more from this area, we may affect the local ecology," he reminded her.

She felt silent - but a soft grumble sounded from her stomach.

"I vote," she announced a few moment later, "that we get dressed and head to the anomaly campsite." She raised her head to look at him. "Will did provision it, right?"

"Food enough for four people for eight weeks," he answered.

She raised a brow in surprise. "Pretty damned sure of yourself, weren't you?" she asked.

"That I could get you to eat?" he replied, smiling. "Yes. That we would end up exhausting ourselves making love and need those extra rations?" He shook his head. "I hadn't even considered the possibility," he admitted, then lowered his head to kiss the top of hers. "But I must say that I am delighted at the turn of events," he told her softly, then reaching beneath her arms, pulled her further up his body until they were face to face.

He pushed a long strand of hair from her face, then reached his hand behind her head, pulling her to him for a long, soft kiss.

He felt her lips soften at the touch, then felt her body yield as well; his arms around her, he smiled up at her, his eyes dark, soft - hungry.

"I vote," he informed her decisively, "that we get dressed and head to the campsite... later."

"We're at a stalemate, then; our votes cancel out - unless, of course, you might be able to persuade me to change my vote," she added with a smile.

He pursed his lips then gave a nod. "I was once considered to be an exceptional negotiator," he offered. "But for a negotiation to be truly valid, both parties must be willing to give and take. What are you offering?"

She lowered her lips to his ear and murmured something softly.

"An interesting offer," he conceded.

"And you? What are you going to give me in return?" she teased.

Picard smiled. "Oh, I think I have something that would satisfy your needs."

She laughed softly, then rolled over, pulling him atop her.

In retrospect, they probably should have simply gotten dressed and left the valley at sunrise, he thought; now, at mid-day with the full heat of the Samarrasian sun beating down on them and the temperature already rising to a near intolerable degree, he could reflect on his early decision – and the price they were now paying.

It was not a terminal error, he reminded himself; following the stream down the mountainside had allowed them a steady source of water throughout the morning, preventing a repeat of his last mistake in judgment – but it was not an error he would typically have made.

Certainly Admiral Jean-Luc Picard would have chosen prudence over pleasure with no hesitation; his mind firmly set on the goal at hand, he would have permitted little or nothing to get in the way of achieving the goal he had set for himself.

Not that he regretted his - their - decision to stay at the valley and make love again. Admittedly, neither of them were expert lovers; Dee had had far too little experience to be expert in any aspect of a physical relationship - and he hadn't had any type of relationship in so long that he could claim a reasonable degree of familiarity with anything beyond the basics.

Still, despite the fumblings and false starts - or perhaps because of it - they had found themselves enjoying each other without hesitation, Dee seeming to respond to his needs even before he voiced them, and he providing her with as much pleasure as she seemed to need and want - and neither of them repenting the mornings, afternoons, evenings or nights spent doing little more than sating their desires.

No, he didn't regret it - but he could not remember a time when he had put his own needs ahead of that of Starfleet's, or put his personal desires ahead of those of his career. After all, he had forsaken almost everything else in his personal life to reach his professional goals; this morning - indeed, the last two days - should have been no different.

But that was when he had a professional life, he reminded himself quietly; now... now, here he could come to terms with the fact that his role in Starfleet was, for all practical purposes, at an end.

Which left... what? He asked himself. This? The career in archaeology that he had chosen against so many years before? It would be interesting, he allowed; while his career might be in decline, his mental faculties were not. There was much he could add to the wealth of knowledge about those civilizations that had gone before them – and there would be a great deal of personal satisfaction in appeasing his own curiosity about those issues.

The physical challenges of that life, however, might be beyond him, he conceded. Even after two days of rest, his arms and legs still ached from the efforts of the last week; he doubted he would be able to handle that level of physical work on a near-endless basis should he decide to pursue that career for the foreseeable future.

Not that he had to be one of the laborers, he added; Femishar had assigned him those tasks as much to demean him as to prove to him that he was no longer suited to the work – but there was work enough for those without the physical skills, but with the analytic and investigatory skills that a dig required.

There were also, he added grimly, others who were more capable in those areas as well; try as he might, he simply could not keep up with the sheer volume of archaeological research that had come out in the last ten years - and being that far behind, there was a real possibility he might never reach the level of current knowledge.

Admittedly I would be invited to join some digs, he knew – but only those who needed to capitalize on my name or use me to secure funding from the Federation; at this point in my life, my knowledge and experience would count for far less than my name and reputation.

He sighed. What was left then? he asked himself. The Academy? Unlikely, he decided. It was unreasonable to think that they would want him after his actions of the last few years; while he had never been in complete agreement with the philosophies of Starfleet and the Federation, in the last few years he had made little attempt to conceal his growing displeasure with them – or with his refusal to follow those orders with which he disagreed.

Hardly the type of man that Starfleet would want setting the standard of behavior for the next generation of cadets, he knew.

The diplomatic core? Now that was a possibility, he admitted. Despite his own disapproval with Starfleet's actions, he did believe in their overall goals – and the need to work out equitable solutions with the members that had opted to join that organization. Certainly he had proven himself eminently skilled in that area, he added... but was that what he wanted for the next thirty years? Dealing with bureaucrats and their extra-planetary quibbles? Arguing trade agreements and political treaties?

It would be an important position, he told himself – but tedious, tiring – and mind-numbingly boring, he reminded himself. And to do just that for the next thirty years? After a lifetime filled with challenges and adventures? Of exploration and excitement?

He shook his head, remembering the endless list of treaties he had negotiated – and remembering almost none of the details.

Almost, he added, smiling to himself at one memory that remained clearly locked in his memory.

Lost in the thought, he didn't see the loose rock; as he stepped onto it, the rock pulled loose from the dry, friable soil, starting him sliding down the steep hillside.

He didn't have time to think or even react; his feet fell out from beneath him, his arms flew up in the air – and his hand was promptly grabbed.

He had no time to register his relief; even as he felt his weight shift to the outstretched hand, he felt himself falling again, the side of the hill giving way beneath them both, with Andile now tumbling down with him.

They fell, a mass of arms, legs, backpacks, rocks and dirt, until they landed in a heap some hundred meters further down the hillside.

They lay there for a time, breathless, stunned into silence – then Picard raised his head, looking for his companion.

"Dee?"

"Here," she replied a moment later, her voice muffled by the boulder that had stopped her fall.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I think so. You?"

Picard thought the question through, quickly making a mental check of his various body parts – and finding nothing amiss – except perhaps his pride.

"The soil gave way," he said, apropos of nothing.

"Ah," she answered. "And here I was, thinking that you were trying to save time by taking a shortcut."

"Actually, I did it because I know how much you dislike climbing. I was just trying to get to the plain faster and save you the descent."

She startled to chuckle in response – a chuckle that swiftly ended in a groan.

"Dee?" he repeated worriedly.

"My ribs," she explained.

Worriedly, he ignored the pain in his own body, pushed himself upright and made his way down the crumbling hillside to where his friend was trying to push herself upright from where she lay wedged between her backpack and the boulder – with no success.

"Don't move," he ordered her, then quickly loosened his backpack and set it on the ground. Kneeling beside her, he released the clasps on her pack, then carefully peeled it free.

She gave an involuntary groan at his efforts. "Sorry," he apologized, then gently began to work his hand between the rock and her chest.

"The lengths to which you'll go to feel me up," she murmured as he worked his hand along her ribs.

"The lengths to which you'll go to get me to feel you up," he countered – then stopped as she let out a gasp.

"Sorry," he said, then pressed his hand against the injured area, probing it carefully – then gave out a relieved sigh. "It doesn't feel as if you've broken anything," he said, "but I want to scan it just to make sure," he added. "Can you turn over?"

"Yes," she said, raising her hand to push against the rock, then hastily adding, "No."

"All right," he said with a sigh, then gave her an apologetic smile as he reached placed his hands on her shoulder and hip. "Just hang on," he told her. "This is going to hurt."

She gritted her teeth against the pain, releasing only a brief yelp as he succeeded in turning her to her back.

Opening her shirt, he reached beneath the bottom of her undershirt, carefully easing it up to reveal the bruised ribs – but no higher.

Despite the pain, she smiled at the discretion of the man; they had spent the last two days with no thought about being naked with one another – but here, now, he was being ever-so-chivalrous about unnecessarily exposing her flesh to him.

Reaching for his pack, he fished through it for the medical tricorder; finding it, he quickly passed it over the quickly darkening bruises – and sighed, relieved, at the read-out.

"No breaks," he said.

"I'd hope not," she answered. "That side has the tritanium framework," she reminded him. "It takes more than a little fall to break them."

He smiled – a little sadly. "I had forgotten," he admitted.

She reached for his hand, shaking her head as she did so. "Jean-Luc, what happened back then... it wasn't your fault."

He gave her a skeptical look. "Tillerman was trying to kill me; you jumped in his way to save my life," he reminded her.

"Which proves that it wasn't your fault; Tillerman pulled the trigger – and I jumped in. Our decisions - not yours. You weren't involved," she explained.

"I made the decision to keep you alive," he replied. "I put you through a hell you didn't deserve."

"You did," she agreed, then reached one hand to caress his face. "And you kept me alive. I never said thank you." She leaned forward, following her hand, and kissed him – then gave a soft gasp as a sharp pain passed across her chest.

He pulled back and gave her a concerned look. "Tritanium or not, you took a hard blow."

"From which I'll recover in a few hours," she reminded him.

"Agreed," he replied, thankful once more for her ability to heal in a fraction of the time required for a normal human to recover from a similar injury. "Nonetheless, I think we should wait a little while before heading out again," he countered. "Carrying that pack down the hillside with bruised ribs won't be comfortable; trying to keep your balance on this soil won't make it any easier," he pointed out.

"It's not that bad," she protested, hastily adding, "but I'm not going to argue against a break for a few minutes. Though not too long; that sun is strong," she reminded him.

Relieved that he wasn't going to have to fight her on the point, he settled beside her, took his canteen from his belt opened it then offered it to her.

She drank thirstily, then returned it to him, watching as he drained the canister. "We should be careful with the water. I think we lost the stream back on the hill," she pointed out.

Picard nodded, then reached for the padd. "We should pick it up when we reach the plain. In fact, we'll have to cross it to reach the anomaly," he said as he consulted the readout. "Given the shortcut we just took, we should be able to reach the campsite in an hour or so. Even in this heat, we shouldn't have any problems getting to the water long before we run out again," he offered.

She nodded, then let herself lean back against the steep hillside. "I presume you've noticed the difference in soil," she murmured, picking up a small handful of the dusty brown material. "Rich loam back in the valley, but this dry stuff down here."

Picard looked down, noticing the dry soil for the first time. Reaching for a small rock, he pulled it free easily – then tossed it down the hillside. A half-dozen smaller rocks cascaded after it, stopping only when they reached then thin trunk of a small, thin tree.

Come to think of it, he realized as he studied the area, there weren't many trees at all at this altitude; the few that were here were thin, stunted... No, not stunted, simply very young, as though the area had only recently been planted with new trees.

Had the Kevesterians harvested these trees for some purpose and then replanted new ones? he wondered – then dismissed the idea.

"Femishar would have investigated the site if he and his people had been here before," Andile agreed with his thoughts. "Whatever caused this unusual plant growth, it wasn't the Kevesaterians. Maybe a micro-climate here," she added, more to herself than to him.

He grinned at her. "I thought you didn't read other people's thoughts," he teased her.

She looked back, startled at the interruption of her thoughts. "It's not intentional," she assured him. "I just don't have much choice. Proximity effect and all that."

"Ah," he said, remembering her description of how physical closeness could affect some telepath's abilities to read others; the closer they were, the easier it was to read them...

The closer they were...

He looked at her, horrified. "Surely you don't mean... you... me... Everything I was thinking..."

Dear God. No wonder she had always seemed to know just what I wanted, even as I did.

She smiled at him, then gave a shrug. "It goes both ways, Picard; you could read me as well. My telepathic self-control is virtually non-existent when I'm in the midst of... you know," she added, somewhat uncomfortably – then flashed him a knowing look, adding, "as you well know."

He blushed, a little taken aback that she was aware of how readily she broadcast her needs when they were making love. "I wasn't aware that you knew you did that."

"I wasn't. But I figured it out... just before I left the Enterprise," she added.

He blazed red, mortified that she had realized what had happened. "Dee, I never intended..."

She gave a soft laugh, amused by his expression of contrition and embarrassment. "Don't apologize, Jean-Luc," she conceded. "I didn't realize it at first - but after a few times when you couldn't look me in the face at the officer's meeting in the morning, I realized something was wrong. You were embarrassed. It took me a while to figure out that my nights with Data were the only constant for those days when you weren't able to face me; it took a little longer to figure out why you were embarrassed."

She reached for his hand, lacing her fingers in his. "You should have told me."

"Told you what?" he countered. "That every time you and my-soon-to-be first officer made love, I could hear you? Feel you? Sense everything you felt? How do I tell you that? And what could you have done?" he asked her, almost angrily.

"We could have been as far from you as possible; found different quarters, changed work shifts, found different places further away from you..." she protested. "You had a right to a peaceful life, without having to put up with my hungers and needs..."

"And you two had the right to everything that officers deserve – better quarters, free time together, the time to explore your own developing relationship," he replied. "It was not my place, not my right, to ask you to change your lives."

"And so you continued to listen in on my passions? Gods, aren't you the noble one?" she asked.

"What did you want me to do, Dee? Embarrass you both? Embarrass us all?" he asked her.

She looked at him – then slowly shook her head. "No. No. That would have been difficult for you. Impossible. But you shouldn't have had to suffer through it either."

"I didn't," he replied.

It was her turn to raise a brow. "Oh?" she asked curiously.

His return gaze was caustic. "No. I found that I could distract myself until you two were through. Extra shifts on the bridge, time spent with... others..."

"Beverly?" she pressed.

He stared at her, then nodded. "Yes."

"You told her?"

He nodded.

"And?"

"And?" he echoed.

"Did the two of you...?" she pressed.

"What?! No! Of course not!"

"Of course not? Why 'of course not'? You love her, she loves you..." Andile asked.

"Yes – but neither of us were ready for that," he told her.

She rolled her eyes. "Gods, Picard, you two were ready for it the day you met! I've seen you both, seen you together – you love each other – and yet you do everything but work it out. If ever there were two people more intent on abusing themselves by denying the love they both deserve, I have yet to meet them. And I've met a lot of people," she added.

He met her gaze. "Have you looked in a mirror lately?" he asked quietly.

She stared back, the protestation in her eyes – then gave in. "Touché. But... Our circumstances are different. Even if that man is my Data, he can't have a life with me. When you and I are done here, when we go back, I have to leave. I can't stay in Federation space – and he can't go with me. You _can_ be with her."

Picard studied the woman for a long time – then slowly shook hs head.

"No. My life in Starfleet is over - while Beverly's future is bright and flourishing. Being with me would limit – or destroy – that future. Even if she agreed to be with me, I don't think I could bear knowing what she had given up for that."

"Isn't that her choice to make?" Andile pressed.

"She did; I invited her to join me here – and she opted to make a speech instead," he reminded her.

Andile nodded in commiseration and understanding – then smiled up at him. "Then I'm sorry for you - and for me. We can't have what we both truly want. But we can have this, here and now," she reminded him. "It's not forever – but it can be damned fun while it lasts," she added. "And maybe that's enough."

It wasn't - and they both knew it - and yet even that paltry amount was more than either of them had.

Picard smiled back at her, then leaned close and gave her a chaste kiss. "Are you ready to try moving on?" he asked.

"I think so," she murmured, then slowly, carefully rose to her feet. Looking at her chest, she noted that the bruise was already fading; she pulled down the undershirt, then pulled the overshirt around her, tying it off at the waist. "If you'll help me with the backpack?" she asked.

"My pleasure," he said, ignoring his own protesting muscles as he quickly repacked his own bag, hefted on to his shoulders, then lifted her bag.

She shrugged into it, then secured the clasps at the front – then reached for her lover's - her friend's - hand. "Shall we?" she asked.

He smiled, took her hand, and then began to cautiously work his way down the rocky mountainside.

"So," she said as they moved down the hill, "who is the Vash person you were thinking about when you should have been thinking about where you were walking – and why does this trip remind you of her?"

He burst out laughing, grinned, then started to speak as they walked on.

"Vash," he repeated ruefully. "Where do I begin with Vash?"

"Where you begin with every story – at the beginning."

"The beginning. That was about fifteen years ago. I was on Risa..."


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

Deanna stood in the doorway, staring at her husband as he sat at his desk in their quarters – and smiled.

She had never truly doubted that Will would make a good ship's captain: he had always had the skill and ability to instill loyalty in those who served with him, but that skill existed in many a captain in Starfleet – and common belief aside, it was not that which set apart those rare individuals who reached the higher levels of admiration of their peers. Rather it was the determination to know and understand every aspect of every situation so that he – or she – could have a ready answer at hand for any and all situations that might arise.

There were those, of course, who had that skill – and used it noisy, boastfully, pointing out the number of hours they worked in order to better serve their crew, their ship or Starfleet. It served, to a degree: the crew knew that their captains worked hard for them – but by boasting of their work and their knowledge, they often left their officers and crew feeling less needed, less appreciated for their own abilities and skills.

Far fewer were those captains who dedicated the countless hours to those same efforts – then spent even more time to listen to the opinions thoughts and ideas of their officers and crewmen – and occasionally their bartenders, Deanna remembered with a smile – and then added those opinions to his own thoughts, granting them the weight they deserved as he sought out the best path for everyone involved.

Knowing him as she had, when they were both so much younger, she had never considered him as being one of those latter officers: he was young, brash, more intent on impressing those around him then on working with them as a part of a cohesive team – but that had been before he had taken his assignment on the Enterprise.

Not to give too much credit to his mentor, she added silently: as good a captain as Jean-Luc Picard had been, Will had been on the path toward become a good senior officer even before his final posting a Picard's exec. Most of the officer he was now was due to his own work, his own efforts – and not through the influence of others.

But...

Standing here, watching him pour over padd after padd of details... there was no mistaking who instilled in her husband the need to have every detail at hand, ready to be recalled and applied should the circumstance require it – not to prove that his superiority, but out of the sheer need to be the best captain his ship – his crew – could have.

Captain Picard's crew would have done anything – anything! - for him – because they understood he would have done anything for them.

As Will's crew understood that he would do anything for them.

She felt a wash of pride and love for her husband; stepping through the door, she moved behind his chair, one finger tracing a single hair on his head.

"Ten more minutes," he promised hollowly, reaching for another padd.

She smiled, deciding not to mention that he had made that same promise an hour before. "You've got a gray hair," she said softly.

Surprised by the unexpected remark, he stopped reading then turned to look up at her, smiling. "Only one?" he teased.

"Only one that I can see," she replied. Pushing his chair back from the desk, she faced him, the folds of her sheer gown brushing against his chest as she reached to examine the follicles on his head.

He turned his face up to hers, watching as she pretended to search, smiling as he studied her expression, then met her eyes as she lowered her gaze to his.

"I love you," he told her.

"I know," she answered, then settled herself on his lap. "I know you're worried about the situation, Will, but I'm sure you'll be able to keep Czymszczak from going after Beverly," she assured him.

"I wish I were as certain; Admiral Czymszczak is determined to become the next president of the Federation – and I can't think of an easier way than to make a public spectacle of a rescue of a bunch of homeless children escaping from Cardassia – especially when he can tie a Romulan to that rescue."

"It would infuriate the Romulans if that news were made public," she pointed out. "They might even pull out of the next round of negotiations – and that would not serve him well if he were the reason they did so," Deanna reminded him.

"Knowing Czymszczak, he wouldn't go public – but he would threaten to release the news to the Cardassians. Given the political situation between those two, Cardassia would be forced to declare war on Romulus – and the Romulans know that," he replied.

"They also know they can't win that war. Not now, not given their current political and economic situation."

"So they'd have to do whatever Czymszczak wants?"

"Let's just say that they'd be... compelled – unwillingly... to join the Federation. It would be an alliance that would impress even those who otherwise wouldn't vote for Czymszczak," Will continued.

"But it wouldn't last," Deanna pointed out. "The Romulans do not respond well to being bullied. The last time..."

"The last time it ended when we destroyed the Scimitar," he concluded soberly. "The civil war that resulted almost destroyed the Romulans; this time, the civil war would tear them apart – and leave Czymszczak in position to step in, take over – and impose a peace upon them, whether they want it or not. They would not be in any position to refuse him."

"He'd destroy their culture – just to become the president," she said sadly.

"_If_ the opportunity were given to him," Will agreed. "I'm trying to make sure that doesn't happen – but I don't want him going after the Captain... the Admiral..." he amended with a smile, "either. I can't see that ending well. Admiral Picard found in the company of a suspected treasoner."

"A dead treasoner," Dee protested.

"Her death was never recorded, Deanna," he reminded her. "Czymzczak's made sure of that. If anything that she knew were ever to become public, he could easily turn it around and make her the accused – and given her reputation, no one would doubt it."

"So you can't let him go after Beverly – and you can't let him find out about Dee. That means," she said knowingly, "you've got something else in mind."

Will nodded. "I do – but I'm hoping I don't have to use it. At least not completely," he added worriedly.

"Will..." Deanna began warningly. "What are you planning?"

"I'm hoping to give Czymszczak an easier target, something that might gain him some quick and easy public recognition."

"Like...?" she coaxed.

"Like the captain of the Enterprise not being quite up to snuff," he said dryly.

"Will!" Deanna exclaimed, horrified.

"I'm hoping to keep it to a minimum – performance not quite up to standards, a few less than glowing reports from my department heads..."

"Will, you could lose the Enterprise if you do that!" she protested.

"I know – and I assure you, Deanna, that I'm hoping to keep it from going that far – but if that's what it takes, that's what it takes. The Captain... the Admiral," he corrected himself, "would have done as much for any of his crew; can I do less for him?" he asked her.

She leaned against him, burying her head against his shoulder as she accepted the reality of what he intended to do – of what he had to do, if he was going to keep Czymzczak away from their friends.

"I suppose I could get used to being the wife of a freighter captain," she said after a time.

"If this doesn't turn out well, I might not even be able to land that post," he countered. "You," he added with a smile, "might be responsible for supporting the whole family. After all, Betazoid counselors are in high demand – and I could get used to being a 'kept' man," he added.

"Oh?"

"Well, I'm told I do have certain talents," he continued, his hand moving from her shoulder to her breast, caressing it gently.

She bit back a moan, then reached for his hand, taking it from her breast, and slowly led him back toward their bed. Pushing him back against the edge, she looked down at him and smiled. "Look at the positive side, Will; if you lose the ship, at least we'll have more time for this," she said.

Still, she thought as she lay in his arms later, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest as he slept against her, losing the ship would devastate him. Yes, she knew that he would not hesitate to give the ship up – not when he knew that it would protect his friends – his captain, she amended – but earning his post at the center seat of this ship had been one of the proudest moments of his life – and he had worked hard to make sure that maintained the right to sit in that place.

But losing the ship would not hurt him as deeply as watching his friends suffer, all the while knowing he could have prevented it – but had done nothing.

Whatever happened, she would be there to see him through it all – she, she thought, her hand moving to the swell of her belly – and this, their child. She smiled: this child might not grow up knowing his father was captain of the flagship of the Federation – but he would grow up knowing his father would do anything and everything to protect the people he loved.

Then the smile faded. Yes, their child might know that his father was a good captain and a loyal friend - but there was also every chance that he would grow up knowing his father through the force fields of a prison.

Czymszczak would not hesitate to punish Will for his actions in trying to protect his friends; he go to a penal colony – if they were lucky. If they weren't...

If they weren't lucky, this child would never know his father, except through the stories Deanna told him.

She felt a tug at her heart and at the base of her stomach. The Enterprise was a ship of miracles – but even she could not always protect her captain or her crew.

Will would do anything to save his captain, his friend – but would anybody be able to save him?


	42. Chapter 42

Chapter 42

Beverly stepped off the transporter pad almost happily – then hesitated as she stood before the large Romulan, uncertain about how to approach him.

It had been more than four years since she had seen him last – and while they had departed as friends, the Reman rebellion had changed many things on Romulus – and many people as well.

"Ambassador Tiron," she began hesitantly.

"Not Ambassador, Dr. Crusher," he corrected her quickly – then smiled. "Not anymore. Nor Senator. Now, I am just... Tiron," he informed her. "Technically, it is Lord Tiron," he amended, "but that is just a formality. I am still Tiron – to my friends."

"Lord Tiron?" Beverly echoed, taken aback.

"A family title," he explained, blushing slightly. "I do not use the title often – except when I have to... What is the phrase your people use? 'Throw my weight around'?" he asked – then glanced down at himself. "Though clearly I do not need a title to do that," he added, looking at his more than ample girth.

Time had clearly not harmed the man's appetite, Beverly decided – though it had taken a toll on the rest him.

Though still robust, there was definitely more gray to his hair than there had been at their last meeting – and the lines on the man's face were deeper than they had been on their last meeting, she thought – then conceded that time must had its toll on her in similar ways.

"And the good admiral tells me you have a new title as well," he continued, reaching for her hands. "Chief Medical Officer of Starfleet," he said, tightening his hold on her fingers. "Your people could not have chosen better," he said. "You saved my baj – not an easy task – and gave her back her life – a more difficult one than most could know. If anyone was qualified to see to the life and health of everyone in the Federation, it would be you."

"Unfortunately," Beverly sighed, "being the CMO is far less about using one's medical skills than it is about dealing with politics, planning and people. And paperwork," she added plaintively.

"Ah, yes, the paperwork; it is an inevitability, whether it is a high post in an organization like Starfleet – or like the Senate," he added with a reluctant sigh.

Beverly gave him a worried glance, but deferred her comments; they would be traveling together for several weeks, and there would be ample time to talk with one another in the days to come. For now, though, there was work to be done – starting with getting the children aboard the Romulan's vessel.

"Tiron, thank you for helping us," she began.

"My baj needed me – I could not fail her again," he interrupted quickly.

Beverly shook her head. "I don't think you ever failed her, Tiron. Dee has always had a very difficult time accepting help from others – and a harder time accepting that she is worthy of being helped. I don't know the details beyond what Jean-Luc has told me, but it sounds as though Dee found an excuse to run away from you – and she did so."

Tiron nodded unhappily. "I had suspected as much. She... we were having a difficult time, the baj and I. She was... is... a young woman who has only has herself to depend upon for her short life; once she recovered, she could not bring herself to understand that I was not trying to control her life, only to provide guidance."

Beverly looked at him, worry and concern instantly covering her face. "Recovered?"

Tiron nodded slowly. "After she came to Romulus, she... she stopped recuperating. Her injuries stopped healing, she... she could not breathe," he said, his voice agonized. "Her lungs... it was as it had been at the beginning of her recovery. She was confined to bed, barely able to sit up, to move, to eat... She was dying. I hired physicians – all that I could find who specialized in human physiology, but none could cure her."

Beverly reached for his hand, taking in consolingly. "I was concerned that she would relapse – when the Breen discontinued her medication so abruptly, I was afraid it would happen – but she seemed to be handling the transition without incident."

"She did – for a time. But there is more to life and health than just surviving. She... missed you. Missed the admiral – missed her Mr. Data," he added with a smile. "She had finally grown used to not being alone – and then suddenly all she had was her old grandfather," he sighed. "Her loss was more than she could bear. And, after a time, her doctors told me they could not cure her – that her injuries were simply too severe, and not responding to their therapies. I knew it was her injuries, but rather her loneliness – but I was lonely, too; I could not bear the thought of going on without her.

"I petitioned the Emperor to grant me permission to take her to the Ba'ku homeworld and allow her to recuperate on that planet," he said. "He granted me that privilege – as did the Ba'ku – and I took her there. A long and arduous journey of several months – but the radiation, and the natural beauty of the planet, brought my little one back to me," he sighed.

"But when I returned my world had changed," Tiron continued. "The Senate had been all but destroyed, the military in disarray... and I was in disfavor. Suspected of complicity, accused of dereliction of duty..." he shook his head. "And add to that my adoption of a human as my grandchild and heir? The Emperor – quite correctly – decided I was more liability than asset, and asked me to step down from my post. And I must confess, I was relieved to have had him ask me to do so," he added with a smile. "More often than not, such dismissals are performed by assassination. I suspect that making the baj my heir had that benefit, at least; the Emperor would rather I be alive and useless to him, than be dead – and have my estate in the hands of a human," he chuckled.

"Do you think that Andile aware of this?" Beverly asked.

"My baj? Not know everything that is happening around her?" Tiron chuckled. "Of course she knew. It caused her great pain, knowing that she had cost me my position – but she also knew that her presence had also saved my life. I think that she stayed as long as she did because she wanted to ensure that safety – but when she felt that her obligation was done, she left.

"I searched for her," he continued. "But even with all of my resources, I could not find her. It wasn't until the admiral called me that I knew where she was – but where she has been, I do not know – nor," he added, "where we are going. For now, though, I know we must bring you charges aboard," he added, then guided Beverly to the transporter room door.

"I have prepared living quarters for the children – the information the admiral provided was quite detailed – but I do not believe I have the facilities for delivering babies," he added warily.

Beverly smiled at the worry in the man's voice and in his expression. "I'm hoping that that will not be a problem," she said. "Dee was a little off in her guess as the their delivery date – and providing nothing untoward happens, we should have them to their new home before the babies get here. Of course, what happens there is another matter entirely," she added worriedly.

Tiron nodded, then patted the woman's hand. "Of that, my dear Beverly, you do not have to worry; now that I have found her, I shall make sure that she – and her children – are safe and well cared for."

Beverly turned to look at the old Romulan. "This isn't the end, Tiron; these aren't the only children. She's going to go back – and she's going to try to rescue them all."

He met her eyes soberly. "I know – and she will die in the process. They will all die. Unless I help her," he added. "She is my grandchild, Beverly – which makes these children mine as well. I must be there for them as much as for her."

She gaped. "Tiron... there are a quarter of a million children who were abandoned on Cardassia!"

"That the task is great does not change the fact that it still must be accomplished," he said quietly, then added, "You forget, Beverly, that I am a wealthy man – a very wealthy man. I have the resources – and if it is the baj's will that we save them, we will do so. But, for now, we will save these thirty children first. Now, let me show you the living space I have had prepared," he said, gesturing at the doorway.

The living space was far from spacious; for all his wealth, Tiron couldn't change the reality that finding and provisioning a spaceship on a few days' notice was a challenging task at best: making that ship a nurturing environment for such injured children was beyond even him.

It was, however, welcoming: bedrolls and pillows filled on section, so the children could sleep together, while another area has low tables arranged for the communal meals – and, to her surprise, a third area was filled with toys.

Brightly colored balls, small stuffed animals, paper and colored styli – simple toys, but ones that even these children could touch and feel and experiment for themselves as they desired.

"They may be children who are lost and deprived," Tiron said as he followed her gaze, "but they are children nonetheless. They must begin to learn their proper place – as the future. They have already learned pain and sorrow and fear – now they must learn joy and happiness. Not something the baj knows," he added with a smile, "so I will teach them – as I will teach her."

"I think I know which will be the harder task," Beverly murmured.

Tiron patted her arm. "True, my dear Beverly; so true. But perhaps, with time and Mr. Data's help, I can help her learnt that lesson. But for now: does this meet with your satisfaction?"

Beverly nodded. "I think this will do quite well, Lord Tiron," she replied.

He chuckled. "Call me that, Beverly, and you must address my baj as the Lady Tironbyaj – and I do not think that will sit well with the little one. Let us set aside that title, and let your companions address me as she does: patchni. I think that it will do your wards good to know that from this point forth, they all have a loving grandfather who will not permit them every to come to harm. And speaking of your children, is it not time that we bring them aboard?" he asked. Come, let us go to the bridge, and I will provide Mr. Worf with docking coordinates. I am looking forward to seeing him again – and to meeting the new Mr. Data and his brother. And to meeting this S'bey in whom my baj has granted such trust."

He turned her from the door and guided her back into the hallway. "I have arranged living quarters for you all – though I suspect B-4 and Mr. S'bey would prefer to stay with the children. I thought it would facilitate matters if you and Mr. Worf were closer to my quarters. It would facilitate our discussions, for we have much to plan if we are to make a home for these children."

"It would be simpler if we knew where we were going," Beverly countered. "Or did Dee give you the coordinates?"

He shook his head, "No. And she was wise not to do so. I am but a man, my dear – and strong as I once was, I am now too old – too vulnerable – to be entrusted with such information. We all are," he added, looking at her. "Should events not proceed as we would have them do, we could be captured, imprisoned – and worse. There are too many ways of making even the strongest talk, of forcing us to reveal that information – and we can all break, even the strongest of us, when placed under the correct form of compulsion," he said.

Beverly met his eyes, confused.

"What are you saying, Tiron?" she asked.

He smiled back. "I have had four years, my dear Beverly, to learn about my baj – and people around her. About why they do what they do – and why they do not do what they do not do. We all have our weaknesses – and our strengths – and both can, and have, been turned against us. Of this, we will talk - but there is time for that later. For now, let us get our children aboard – and start our journey."

"You said you didn't know where we were going," she pointed out.

"I do not – but I suspect one of you does."

"But you said..." she started – then recognition dawned. "Oh! Of course! Dee told B-4 the coordinates," Beverly realized, knowing that, if captured, he could not be compelled to reveal their destination.

Tiron chuckled. "You are thinking of B-4 as a machine, Beverly; you would be better to think of him as a child. No, B-4 cannot be physically broken – but he is innocent, naïve. A question asked in the right way would reveal all. No, he is not the one the baj trusted with the lives of these children."

Beverly stopped. "You mean Data?"

"Of course," he replied simply.

"But... Deanna told me that Dee didn't believe he was Data – that he was only a replica of Data..."

"As I said, we all have our strengths – and our weaknesses. Tironbyaj's is to believe she is not worthy of being loved. How much harder, then, is it for her to accept that he has returned – because he loves her?"

"Tiron, you don't really believe that, do you?" Beverly asked.

"Have you a better explanation?" he replied, then took her hands in his.

"Geordi spent years trying to rebuild Data," Beverly pointed out.

"Unsuccessfully, I understand – and then, without explanation, it suddenly worked. Capable as he is, even your Mr. LaForge was not able to explain why it worked then – but not before," he added.

Beverly stared at the man, taken aback by his level of knowledge, wondering just how much Jean-Luc had told him – and how much he had found out for himself.

Just how far had he gone to find Andile after she left Romulus? she wondered. Far enough to have pay Starfleet officers to provide him with information? Further? she asked herself. Perhaps the Federation wasn't the only one to put an agent on the Enterprise.

"As I understand it, it took Geordi some time to get all of the proper connections made..." Beverly tried to explain, chasing back her questions for another, more appropriate time – if there ever was an appropriate time to ask someone if they had placed traitors within their organization, she added.

"Perhaps," he concurred, "and perhaps it was simply his time to return. My dear Beverly, I have seen the horrors of this universe, the brutality of war and hate, I have seen all that evil man can be – all that he can do to those around him – but throughout it all, I have seen that what truly survives, what endures – what always endures, is not power, nor force, nor strength; of all the reality of the worlds around us, there is no power stronger than that of love.

"He loves her. That is explanation enough for me – and, I think for her as well – and that is why she will not accept him; she cannot accept the possibility that she is worthy of such love. But that he is, indeed, her Data – yes, she knows it. And believes it; believes so much that of everyone she knew, she trusted only him with our destination – with the fate of her children," he added.

"Now, let us get those children on board, and have Mr. Data set our course," he concluded. "We have much work to do – and a planet of children to rescue."


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Liam McCormack should have been surprised by the expression on Will Riker's face – but there was little – very little – that surprised Liam McCormack.

It had nothing to with experience, ennui or jaundice; rather Liam McCormack was rarely surprised because nothing was a novelty for the young man. After all, it was hard for something to be new or unexpected when you already knew what was going to happen. And Liam knew what was going to happen, because he already knew everything.

Perhaps not _everything_ , he had conceded to himself long ago, but everything he learned he retained in a memory that verged on that of the finest computers – and like those computers, he could analyze that data and manipulate it to predict what events would occur based on past events.

He could do the computers one better, however; he could analyze the data - but unlike the machines, he could examine the changing events that surrounded him, imagine the next potential series of events - and then theorize about those outcomes.

Computers were good, Liam knew; he was better.

Fortunately for Liam, Will Riker also realized he was better than a computer – and managed to convince Captain Efram of the Farragut that he was wasting the young man's potential on his ship, when Will could use him far more effectively on the Hood. Efram hadn't needed much convincing, however; despite the young lieutenant's pleasant demeanor, his near-prescience came across to the older captain as verging on insubordination.

Or so he told Riker when the two had first met several years before – though the Hood's captain suspected that it was the attitude that bothered him as much as the accuracy of the predictions.

"It's a good thing we live in this century," Will told him in one of their frequent conversations after the young man had transferred to the Hood – and later to the Enterprise.. "Five hundred years ago you would be burned at the stake for being a witch."

"Even five hundred years ago," Liam had replied, "my ancestors could figure what was coming – and kept their mouths shut. Otherwise I wouldn't be here today."

Will had grinned at the remark then, but the expression he gave the young man at this moment was anything but jovial.

"I have no idea," Liam admitted.

Will thought for a moment then nodded at the lift doors. "Walk with me," he said, then glanced at the ensign at the science station. "Take the helm, Aari," he said. "Kosha, notify the senior staff that Admiral Czymszczak will be arriving in the shuttlebay in fifteen minutes; have them meet me there in ten minutes – full dress uniforms," he added to the ops officer, before gesturing at Liam to precede him into the lift.

They entered in silence, but as soon as the doors shut, Riker turned to the young man. "Theorize," he said bluntly.

Liam hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "There's no precedence here, Captain. The admiral has shown no history in taking a shuttlecraft to move from one ship to another except where circumstances require it – damaged transporter systems, cultural norms against use of a transporter and the like. The size of his entourage doesn't indicate the need for a shuttle; there's nothing in recent history to suggest he has developed a transporter phobia.

"Actually, his records indicate quite the opposite; he likes to make sudden appearances on Federation ships under his oversight without any forewarning," Liam added.

"And Captain Herrieria said nothing?" Will asked.

"The information was relayed by her comm officer, Captain," Liam said. "I gather that she was on the shuttlebay with the admiral at the time of his departure; based on the comm officers wording, I can infer that this was at his direction – as was the limited communication with the Enterprise."

Meaning she had been ordered not to communicate with the Enterprise after the Admiral's departure, Will decided. It was unlikely that she could provide him with any more information, he knew equally well – but by ordering her silence, Czymszczak was adding a level of mystery to the situation.

Liam must have had the same thought, Will realized as he saw the man smiling at him.

"So why the shuttle?" Will pressed.

"The obvious: that he wants to get the publicity for being the one who 'rescued' the children – and the easiest way to do is to be the person who shows up with them at the nearest Federation starbase," Liam said.

Will shook his head. "Unlikely. First of all he didn't rescue them…"

"The only one who knows that is the Romulan who brought them aboard – and she'll get conveniently enveloped in Federation red tape until he's had the chance to publicize the events," Liam interjected. "It would be her word against his."

"And ours," Will added reflexively – then sighed, conceding that point. "You're right: no one is going to argue that point with Czymszczak. Not in this matter. But that doesn't answer the question: why the shuttle? They wouldn't all fit; there are more than thirty of them – and the shuttle can handle seven or eight at best."

"No, sir, but they would fit on the captain's yacht – and providing you with a warp-capable shuttle would mean that he could take the yacht while leaving the Enterprise at full defensive capability. Otherwise you could cite regulations and keep the yacht," Liam pointed out.

Will's eyes widened in appreciation of the maneuver. "Even so," he added after a moment's reflection, I can't see the Admiral as being willing to ride herd over thirty-some children for the week or more needed to get them to…?"

Liam shrugged. "Got me on that one, sir. My guess is that he has someone with him who can watch over the kids – or he plans on using the Romulan to do so while he sits it out on the yacht's bridge. As to where they are going, though, I can theorize from known data, but there's nothing – and I mean nothing! – to indicate where those children were going. The Admiral couldn't possibly know either; my guess is that he was simply going to move them to the nearest starbase, notify the press – and the Admiralty – what he had done, gather all the publicity he could – and then turn the children over to… whomever. The Federation - to have them try to figure out where they belong, maybe to the Romulans if they could verify the papers…"

"They can't," Will grumbled.

"Then probably they wind up back on Cardassia," Liam concluded.

"We can't let that happen," Will said instantly.

If they went back, Andile would simply go after them again – and this time she would die in the effort, he suspected – if the children even lived long enough to be rescued.

"No, sir," Liam agreed, "any more than we can let the Admiral publicize what happened to the children in the first place. Rumors about the Chiemma situation have been floating around the quadrant since the end of the war – but they've been just that: rumors. Taking it public will result in the Cardassians closing off all contact with the Federation – and that will be the end of any chance of saving the children that are still alive – and destroying the treaty discussions in the process."

Will gaped at Liam. "How the devil do you know about the Chiemma?" he exploded. "No one knows about it: even the Cardassians refuse to admit what happened!"

"Not all of the Cardassians, sir; some are horrified about what happened and have been trying to find a solution internally. And not everyone on Cardassia is Cardassian, sir; they've opened the borders – at least somewhat – and the rumors have been making their way back. And not everything is rumor, sir; school enrollment figures, medical care rates, usage of vaccinations, clothing manufacture… there are countless indicators that almost a full generation of Cardassians are gone. I can account for the numbers lost during the war – but there are more than a million others that simply are… gone. Parents arrested and killed for their political beliefs, and their children thrown into the streets, left to fend for themselves with no resources. Best guess at this point is eight hundred thousand have already died."

"And she's only been able to save thirty," Will whispered, shocked by the unexpected numbers.

"That's thirty more than would have been saved if she hadn't gone," Liam countered. "At least someone had the guts to do something – even if was only to save thirty of them."

Will looked the man soberly. "That 'someone' broke the laws of Cardassia, Romulus and the Federation and put every party in the treaty at risk to save them," he pointed out.

Liam smiled. "Yes – but that 'someone' has a history of doing whatever she wants."

Will froze, then barked out "Computer, halt lift."

The lift came to stop quickly – and Will gave his subordinate a hard look. "Liam, how much do you know?" he pressed, knowing the young man had fathomed out much of the events of the last few days – but exactly how much he needed to discover.

"Know?" Liam replied. "Nothing. How much can I surmise? Quite a lot. I was able to figure out who she who she is – or was – and, more importantly, I know what's at stake here. Your career…"

"My career be damned," Will muttered.

"Then Admiral Picard's career – maybe his life. Assuming my conjecture is correct …"

"Something I can't confirm," Will replied.

Liam nodded, understanding. "Assuming I'm correct, the 'Romulan' who was leading the children is at risk if the admiral figures out who she was – and that she was here. As to why he's that afraid of her, I can't surmise – there's too much that's hidden away in files I can't access..."

"And I don't want you to even try!" Will snapped instantly. "If there's any indication that someone on this ship is trying to retrieve that information, it would put your life – and the lives of a lot of people – at risk!"

"Yes, sir!" Liam answered. "But… Permission to speak freely?"

"Of course."

"I'm good at what I do, sir; I see what everyone sees, read what everyone reads – well, perhaps a bit more – but unlike most people, I can put it all together and see the next move. It's why no one plays chess with me: I can figure out what's coming. And that said, sir… your plan isn't going to work," Liam said bluntly. "I've figured out what you're going to try to do – and it isn't going to work."

Will stared, unbelieving – then shook his head. "Lieutenant…"

Liam countered the protestation with a head shake of his own. "Captain, you brought me aboard the Enterprise because you know what I am capable of doing; you've let me use those talents and abilities for the benefit of this ship, and Starfleet – and my own career. Please, sir," he said quietly, "let me return that favor," he said plaintively.

Riker studied the man, wondering if he should trust the man. After all, the ship still held at least one of Czymzszak's agents – if not more – and Liam's move to the Enterprise could have been then nothing more than a very carefully planned and executed transfer of another agent into a position where he could readily report to the admiral – one done not only under Will's nose, but at his direction.

It would have been a brilliant move, Will thought, and it would have put Liam in a position to destroy the ship and her crew if Czymszczak had ordered him to do so.

I shouldn't trust him, Will reminded himself; I should trust in myself and Deanna and Geordi – and hope like hell that we can pull this off.

But hoping wouldn't be enough, he added; not this time. Not when so many lives were at stake. Not just his and Jean-Luc's and Dee's – but his child's, and hundreds of thousands of children on Cardassia.

He drew in a deep breath – then let it out slowly. He had to trust someone – and the one person he knew he could trust was himself.

And his instincts.

Will nodded slowly. "All right, Liam. What do you propose?"

The young man smiled – then sobered. "We're in this for the long haul, Captain – all the way back to Starfleet if we do it right. Which means the first thing, sir, is put on your dress whites. The admiral gave you a head's up about his arrival; hinting that you're not quite up to snuff – by showing up in your duty uniform – is forcing the play."

"It was that obvious?" Will asked.

"Not obvious to some – but Admiral Czymszczak didn't get where he is by being a fool. You don't get to be captain of the Enterprise by being sloppy and careless – not when you have an option to do something else. Show up in anything less than top form, and he'll know he's being maneuvered.

"No sir, if you're going to win this game, you're going to have to finesse him, not bludgeon him. This is going to be a long game, not a single hand. And, sir," he added, his voice dropping, "you're going to have to be prepared to lose more than a few hands in the process. More than prepared," he added quietly. "You're going to have to lose some hands completely. "

Will met the man's eyes, realizing that the man understood the risks he was facing as well as he did. "I'm aware of that, lieutenant," he said quietly.

"Yes, sir," Liam replied.

Will paused a moment longer, than called out, "Computer, resume lift."

A moment later, then lift lurched back into motion and Will met Liam's eyes again. "All right, Lieutenant; what do you have in mind?"


	44. Chapter 44

Chapter 44

Picard opened the door, then gestured for Andile to precede him into the main building of their temporary home.

Peering into the interior, she hesitantly stepped over the threshold, then gave a low whistle.

"It's good to be the admiral," she said, seemingly awed as she stepped inside, her eyes adapting to the relatively low light of the room.

Picard gave her a perplexed look.

"Femishar rated a bunch of level one, prefabricated extra-planetary multi-purpose research and residential units – unassembled ones, if you recall," she added, rolling her shoulders at the memory of the over-worked muscles – then met his eyes again. "You, on the other hand, rate this: four single purposed..."

"Five," he corrected. "There's a detached unit for storing samples and artifacts in a stable environment behind the research building."

"...five single purposed units, all pre-assembled, power supplies engaged, and environmental controls running," she added, sighing at the welcome relief from the intense heat of the plain. "I'll bet the pantry is full, too," she murmured.

"It is," he agreed.

"See? It's good to be the admiral," she concluded.

"Hardly," he countered. "This is Will's doing; my requisition allowance from the Federation Archaeological Council permitted only the most basic of supplies – to them I'm a dilettante at best, and was permitted to explore this site only because of my work in getting Femishar to Samarrassia. Will wanted to ensure that my stay here was a little more comfortable – and thus this," he said, gesturing around him at the spacious habitat.

"Well, then here's to Will," she said appreciatively.

"I suspect he wanted to impress me – I was his captain once, and now I am an admiral," Picard added in a low voice.

She looked at him, surprised by the comment. "I think it's more a matter of him wanted to express his friendship... and his respect," Andile said gently. "You're an important part of his life, Jean-Luc. You're the father who wasn't there for him, the leader he wanted to emulate – and the friend he can always trust and respect. Not to mention you're going to be the godfather of his child. He didn't want to impress the admiral by doing this; he wanted to show you his love."

"Hpmf," Picard muttered, but Andile could see the emotion in the man's eyes.

Emotion, she knew, that he was not comfortable in expressing. She turned, looking around the room, then opened one of the doors, glancing into one of the adjacent rooms.

"Bathroom," Picard said.

"So that's what that is," she replied acerbically.

He raised a brow, then gestured at the main room. "This can serve as the dining area, kitchen, conference space – a general purpose area," he explained. "Research lab is through that door," he said, pointing again. "There's a second exit to the outside from the lab; the storage facility is just outside the lab."

"Independent power supply?" she asked.

He nodded. "Bedroom is through there," he added, pointing.

"Bedroom?" she echoed. "One? Wasn't that a little presumptious?" she teased. "I mean, you had to arrange this back on the Enterprise, before we..."

"Dee," he replied soberly, "we shared my quarters – and my bed – for more than a few months when you were on the Enterprise; I didn't think it was going to be a problem here. And no, I wasn't being presumptious: I requested two beds," he added.

Opening the door, Andile peered in, nodding. "I guess Will doesn't hold you in such high esteem after all. Given his personal history, I would have expected him to change that to one bigger bed for two, " she said. "That he didn't change the beds that means he must think you weren't up to the challenge," she teased, then added, more softly, "or that I wasn't a likely partner."

He heard the hint of pain in her voice - but just as she had graciously glossed over his moment of emotion, he promptly returned the favor, ignoring the comment, and continuing, "It was probably out of respect for you, since he's considered my personal life to be fair game for some time," he said. "Do you remember when I was telling you about my first holiday on Risa?"

"When you met Vash?"

He nodded. "What I didn't tell you was what Will did to me. I gather he thought my holiday was going to be... solitary, so he asked that I purchase a horga'hn for him – which I did – but then, out of ignorance, took it with me and left it beside the deck chair where I was reading."

Andile laughed brightly. "And you had no idea that meant that you were advertising that you were seeking jamaharon!"

He rolled his eyes at the memory. "None, whatsoever. Will and I had a brief talk about that later, I can assure you."

"Well, at least he thought you were capable... then," she added, her voice growing sultry and low. She moved closer to Picard, her hands rising up to his shoulders. "And now... Now he might have his doubts, but I don't. So... what do you say to a little jamaharon now, Jean-Luc?"

His eyes met hers – then their lips met – only to be separated a moment later, even as his arms stayed wrapped around her body. "Don't take this the wrong way, Dee – but I really like a cup of tea... first," he added hastily. "I haven't had a decent cup of Earl Grey since we transported to this planet; we've been walking all day, and..."

"You don't have to explain, Jean-Luc. I was hoping to jump in that stream out there – but now that I know we've got a real shower, I'd like to get some of the dirt and stink off of me. Tea – and a shower - it is, then," she said, laughing brightly, her hands moving from his shoulders to the straps of his backpack. Pulling at one slightly, she turned him, then eased the pack from his back, setting it on the makeshift kitchen table, then reached for her own.

He beat her to the task, shifting the pack from her shoulders to the table – then pulled her into his arms. They kissed once again, longer this time – but as the kiss threatened to grow into something more, she pulled back. "Tea?" she reminded him. "Make it lunch, and I'll join you."

"If I'm cooking, you're in charge of unpacking.. when you're done with your shower, that is."

"You're on, Picard," she agreed, grabbing the backpacks – then gave a grunt as she tried to pick them both up.

He looked at her. "And you wanted to be responsible for carrying all the gear?" he prodded her.

"To quote your ancestors, kiss my butt," she replied as she pulled the bags off the table.

"The phrase is 'kiss my ass' not butt, and I'll attend to that... later," he assured her.

"Hmpf!" she snorted, dragging the packs into the bedroom, his soft laugh fading as he began to search through the kitchen supplies.

An hour later, Jean-Luc looked at her expectantly, prompting, "And…?"

Andile grinned. "White asparagus," she explained.

He stared for a moment – then burst out laughing.

She reddened. "I had never seen them before! Green asparagus, yes! But these weren't green. They were white, and thick, and fibrous... and you Earthers eat the damnedest things in the name of sexual prowess. For all I knew she had sacrificed some local animal – or worse! – and was trying to honor me with the offering! She had this look on her face – like she was giving me this incredible treat…"

"They are considered a local delicacy…"

"I gathered that – but I didn't know if the delicacy was a vegetable – or the phalluses of some local youths!" she replied.

"And…?"

"And I couldn't eat them," she admitted. "Not until her husband told me what they were, that is."

"And now?" he pressed.

"Let's just say that I prefer artichokes," she added, stabbing her fork into the aforementioned vegetable, looking at it askance - then placing it back on the plate.

"Not hungry?" he asked.

"Just anxious to get out there," she replied, pointing at the map that was projected across the balance of the large table. "Those readings just aren't right – not if your theory about this being one of the landing sites of the Sundering is correct," she added.

Picard drew his napkin over his mouth, then reached for his padd, switched it on, then pushed his chair next to hers, his lunch forgotten as well. "I don't think there's any question that the anomalous readings correspond to the mounds on the map…"

"Agreed; there's something buried beneath all that dirt," she agreed, "but…"

"But the layout of the mounds doesn't make sense," he concurred.

Andile nodded. "If you're right, and this was a landing site – and those mounds are building that have been covered over during the last few centuries - if this was the landing site of the ship, you'd expect a larger single mound. Unless they cannibalized the ship for resources?" she suggested.

"That was my first thought – but the mounds are so centralized," he agreed. "In a valley this size, you would think the building would be spread out over a greater area."

"Yes, but consider this, Picard," she continued. "The temples at Teotihuacan were centralized…"

"An over-generalization, Dee; yes, the temples at Teotihuacan were centralized – but there were other, smaller buildings along the avenues as well as outside the temple complex area. Excavations have found the foundations of those buildings…"

"I'm not arguing the point – but this place doesn't feel like a religious complex – or a complex of any kind. These mounds are fairly similar in size, with no one being significantly larger than the others," she pointed out.

"Which is suggestive of a Vulcan encampment of the period," he replied. "At the time of the Sundering, they had renounced formal religion…"

"So why would they build their new city here with such a centralized core? Why not spread out over more of the plain? This scrub grass indicates this isn't good farmland."

He pursed his lips, considering. "Perhaps they built here because they had cleared this area, and, for whatever reason, didn't have the opportunity to expand before the colony was lost?"

She frowned. "A warp-capable ship would have been able to clear this valley prior to landing."

He blew out a long breath, then shook his head. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I don't know what we've found here, Picard. It's a mystery! We've found something we can't readily explain – and we can't figure out what it is by sitting here eating artichokes and drinking tea. Come on; let's go do some digging," she said, a glint in her eyes – then looked at him seriously.

"We need to do the survey first," he pointed out.

"Then let's survey! If we get our butts in gear, we might be able to draw some preliminary core samples today and get some carbon dating done by tomorrow! You did respec the spectrometer far the regional rates, yes?"

"Of course – and for the regional decay rates of potassium as well," he said, a knowing grin on his face.

Her jaw dropped. "Fuck. Fuck! You don't think this _is_ the Sundering, do you?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"I... wanted to cover all the possibilities," he demurred. "But... I think we may be dealing with something a little older than the Romulan diaspora."

"You are such a bastard, Picard!" she replied. "You didn't say anything!"

"I could be wrong," he admitted. "But either way, I want the excavation done right; right or wrong, I want the provenance to support the conclusions we reach."

"We're not going to reach any conclusions just sitting here," she pointed out, then rose, quickly clearing the table of their lunch dishes. "Expand that map," she ordered, "and let's overlay the map of the anomalies and the grid for the excavation."

He followed her orders, her enthusiasm contagious. "We should begin from the periphery..."

"And if we had unlimited time, we could. Let's cut to the chase, Picard; let's start... here," she said, pointing to a spot on the map.

"Agreed," he said, then looked at her, his face alight with passion. "If you'll get the maps and the data recorders, I'll get the core sampling equipment. We can further refine the dig areas based on what the samples reveal."

"Agreed," she concurred -then frowned.

"What is it, Dee?" he asked, instantly concerned.

"I have one question, Jean-Luc," she admitted.

"What is it?"

"What the hell is jamaharon, anyway?"

He stared – the laughed, then kissed her. "Behave, and I'll show you – after we get those samples. Come on; let's get started!"


End file.
